UC-NRLF 


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3515 

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1920 

MAIN 


m^ 


THE 

GIPSY  TRAIL 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


BY 
ROBERT  HOUSUM 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  ROBERT  HOUSUM 
COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  SAMUEL  FRENCH 


All  Rights  Reserved 


CAUTION :  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby 
warned  that  "THE  GIPSY  TRAIL,"  being  fully  pro 
tected  under  the  copyright  laws  of  the  United  States, 
is  subject  to  royalty,  and  any  one  presenting  the  play 
without  the  consent  of  the  author  or  his  authorized 
agents  will  be  liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided. 
Applications  for  the  amateur  acting  rights  must  be 
made  to  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  St.,  New 
York.  Applications  for  the  professional  acting  rights 
must  be  made  to  The  American  Play  Company,  33 
West  42nd  St.,  New  York. 


New  York: 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Publisher 
28-30    West    38th    Street 


London : 
SAMUEL   FRENCH,   Ltd 

26    Southampton    Street 
Strand 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of  this 
book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first  hav 
ing  been  obtained  from  the  publisher  confers  no  right 
or  license  to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the 
play  publicly  or  in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only  and  no  performance  of  it  may  be  given 
except  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French, 
28-30  West  Thirty-eighth  Street,  New  York  City. 

SECTION  28 — That  any  person  who  wilfully  or  for  profit 
shall  infringe  any  copyright  secured  by  this  act,  or 
who  shall  knowingly  and  wilfully  aid  or  abet  such  in 
fringement,  shall  be  deemed  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor, 
and  upon  conviction  shall  be  punished  by  imprison 
ment  for  not  exceeding  one  year,  or  by  a  fine  or  not 
less  than  one  hundred  nor  more  than  one  thousand 
dollars,  or  both,  in  the  discretion  of  the  court. 

Act  of  March  4,  1909. 


TO  MY  FATHER 


309 


ARTHUR  HOPKINS 

presents 
"THE  GIPSY  TRAIL" 

A  1917  Romance 

By  ROBERT  HOUSUM 

Staged  by  Arthur  Hopkins 

CAST 
(in  order  of  appearance) 

FRANK  RAYMOND Robert  Cummings 

Miss  JANET  RAYMOND Katharine  Emmet 

JOHN  RAYMOND \ Frank  Longacre 

STILES Charles   Hanna 

FRANCES  RAYMOND Phoebe   Foster 

EDWARD  ANDREWS Roland   Young 

MICHAEL Ernest  Glendenning 

MRS.   WIDDIMORE Effie   Ellsler 

ELLEN Loretta    Wells 

ACT       I.  The  Raymond  Place 
ACT     TI.  The  Andrews  Place 
ACT  III.  The  Raymond  Place 


CAST 

MICHAEL  RUDDER 
EDWARD  ANDREWS 
FRANK  RAYMOND 
JOHN  RAYMOND- 

STILES 

FRANCES  RAYMOND 
MRS.  WIDDIMORE 
Miss  JANET  RAYMOND 
ELLEN 

SYNOPSIS 

ACT  I.      Veranda    of    Frank    Raymond's    summer 
home  at  Kirtland,  Ohio. 
An  evening  in  early  June. 

ACT  II.     Room  in  Edward  Andrews'  summer  cot 
tage,   "The   Breakers,"  on   the   Lake 
Shore  Boulevard. 
An  hour  and  a  half  later. 

ACT  III.  Same  as  ACT  I. 

A  month  later. 

The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  playbill  of  the  first 
performance  of  "The  Gipsy  Trail"  at  the  Plymouth 
Theatre,  New  York  City,  December  4,  1917. 


The  Gipsy  Trail 


ACT  I 

*SCENE  :  The  scene  represents  the  side  veranda  of 
MR.  RAYMOND'S  summer  home  at  Kirtland,  a 
suburb  of  Cleveland,  Ohio,  on  a  moonlit  even 
ing  in  early  June. 

The  veranda  is  formed  by  a  platform,  raised 
some  four  inches  above  the  level  of  the  stage. 
Between  this  platform  and  the  proscenium  is  a 
space  about  three  feet  wide,  representing  a  path 
way.  At  the  rear  of  the  veranda  rises  the  wall 
of  the  house,  which  is  of  pink  stucco,  with  white 
trim. 

This  wall  is  pierced  in  the  center  by  a  wide 
doorway,  open,  with  double  screen  doors  that 
swing  outward.  Through  this  doorway  may  be 
seen  the  plain  brown  wall  of  the  hall,  which  is 
brightly  illuminated;  a  chair  and  table  on  the 
right;  and  a  telephone  on  a  small  stand  on  the 
left. 

In  this  wall  there  are,  to  the  right  of  the  cen 
ter  door,  three  windows;  and,  to  its  left,  two — 
all  hung  inside  with  thick  lace  curtains.  A 
dim  light  may  be  seen,  through  these  curtained 
windows,  inside  the  house,  but  it  is  impossible 
to  distinguish  figures. 

The  right  and  left  side-walls  of  the  veranda  are 
formed  by  white  lattices,  covered  with  vines. 
At  the  point  where  these  reach  the  edge  of  the 

*  See  "Notes  on  Production,"  on  Page  94. 
7 


8  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

veranda,  they  turn  at  right  angles  and  extend 
off  to  right  and  left.  The  roof  of  the  veranda 
is  supported  b\  two  large  white  pillars,  which 
are  set  downstage,  to  right  and  left.  A  large 
dome-light  in  the  center  of  the  veranda  ceiling 
casts  a  soft  glow. 

Against  the  rear  wall,  to  the  right  of  the  center 
door,  is  a  settee,  and  to  the  left  of  this,  a  tabor- 
ette.  There  is  a  similar  settee  to  the  left  of  the 
center  door.  A  small  round  table  stands  up 
left.  Down  center  is  an  ottoman,  and,  to  the 
left  of  it,  a  small  divan,  placed  irregularly.  A 
chair,  facing  left,  stands  at  the  left  of  the  right 
pillar.  All  the  furniture  is  made  of  gray  wick- 
erwork,  upholstered  in  gay  cretonnes. 
NOTE:  "Right"  and  "left"  are  throughout 
"right"  and  "left"  of  the  actors,  not  of  the  audi 
ence. 

Before  the  curtain  rises,  a  few  introductory 
bars  are  played  upon  the  piano,  and  then  the 
voice  of  FRANCES  is  henrd  inside  the  house 
singing  "The  Gypsy  Trail.'' 

FRANCES.     (In  right) 
"The  wild  hawk  to  the  wind-swept  sky, 
The  deer  to  the  wholesome  wold, 
And  the  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid, 
As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old." 

( The  curtain  rises  slowly.  MR.  RAYMOND  stands  in 
front  of  the  doorway  center,  enjoying  his  after- 
dinner  cigar.  He  is  an  efficient-looking  man  of 
about  forty-eight,  dressed  in  a  dark  business 
suit;  and  he  is  bareheaded.  FRANCES  sings  on) 

"The  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid — 
Light  of  my  tents,  be  fleet ! 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  9 

Morning-  waits  at  the  end  of  the  world, 
And  the  world  is  all  at  our  feet !" 

MR.  RAYMOND.     (Calling)     Frances! 
FRANCES.     (In  right)     Yes,  Father? 
MR.  RAYMOND.     If  you're  going-  to  that  wedding, 
don't  you  think  you  ought  to  be  dressing? 
FRANCES.    (In  right)    I've  plenty  of  time. 

(She  begins  to  sing  again. 
"The  white  moth  to  the  closing  vine, 
The  bee  to  the  open  clover, 
And  the  gipsy  blood  to  the  gipsy  blood, 
Ever  the  wide  world  over." 

(MR.  RAYMOND  sighs  and,  walking  over  to  the  settee 
on  the  right,  seats  himself  and  takes  from  his 
pocket  a  legal  document  of  many  pages,  which 
he  begins  to  study) 
"Ever  the  wide  world  over,  lass, 
Ever  the  trail  held  true, 
Over  the  world  and  under  the  world 

(Miss  JANET  RAYMOND  and  JOHN  RAYMOND  enter 
along  the  pathway  from  the  left.  Miss  RAY 
MOND  is  a  pleasant  woman  of  about  thirty- 
seven,  simply  dressed.  JOHN  is  thirteen  and  is 
known  to  his  intimates  as  "Skinny"  Raymond. 
Miss  RAYMOND,  who  has  her  arm  about  him, 
speaks  as  she  enters.  FRANCES  continues  to 
sing  "The  Gipsy  Trail"  throughout  the  follow 
ing  scene) 

Miss  RAYMOND.    Will  you  do  that  for  me,  John 
nie? 

JOHN.    Yes,  Aunt  Janet. 

(He  runs  along  the  pathway  and  disappears  to  the 
right) 

MR.   RAYMOND.        (Looking  up,  as  Miss   RAY- 


ID  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

MONO  comes  up  on  the  veranda  and  goes  to  the  settee 
on  the  left,  where  she  seats  herself)  Janet,  I've 
got  to  go  to  town  this  evening. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Oh,  Frank,  what  a  shame! 
And  you've  hardly  been  home  two  hours.  What 
is  it? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Simpson  just  got  in  from  Chi 
cago.  He  'phoned  me  to  meet  him 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Oh,  about  the  merger?  (MR. 
RAYMOND  nods)  Will  the  papers  be  signed  tonight? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Probably.  Unless  Simpson  and 
I  split  on  details,  and  that  I  don't  anticipate.  (He 
looks  off  to  the  right  and  calls)  Don't  balance  about 
there  on  the  railing,  John.  You'll  fall. 

JOHN.     (Off  right)     No,  I  won't. 

Miss  RAYMOND.    What  time  are  you  leaving? 

MR.  RAYMOND.    A  little  before  eight,  I  think. 
(The  sound  of  a  heavy  fall  is  heard  off  right. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  (Starting  to  her  feet  with  a 
cry)  Oh,  Johnnie! 

MR.  RAYMOND.  What  did  I  tell  him?  (JOHN 
walks  on  from  the  right)  I  told  you  you'd  hurt 
yourself ! 

JOHN.  But  I  didn't!  (He  walks  to  the  chair  to 
the  left  of  the  right  pillar,  leans  against  its  back  and 
begins  to  teeter  back  and  forth)  Takes  more  than 
that  to  hurt  me.  Why,  the  other  day  a  red-hot  liner 
eaught  me  on  the  end  of  the  finger  and  just  smashed 
the  nail  all  up.  It  was  awful  bloody.  It  would  have 
bowled  most  fellows  over — but  not  me !  I  slammed 
it  over  to  first  and  put  the  man  out — easy. 
(The  chair  slips  from  under  him  and  he  avoids  a 
fall  by  a  miracle  of  agility) 

Miss  RAYMOND.  (With  a  nervous  start)  John 
nie,  dear,  you  make  Aunt  Janet  so  nervous.  You 
don't  want  to  do  that  when  she's  come  all  the  way 
from  Minneapolis  to  pay  you  a  visit? 

JOHN.    Aw,  gee,  Aunt  Janet — - 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  n 

MR.  RAYMOND.    (Sternly)    John! 

JOHN.  Yes,  sir.  (MR.  RAYMOND  returns  to  the 
study  of  the  document) 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Now,  sit  down  quietly,  dear, 
and  don't  worry  Father.  Have  you  learned  the 
piece  you're  going-  to  speak  at  Commencement  to 
morrow? 

JOHN.    Yessum. 

(Miss  RAYMOND  rises,  picks  up  the  school-book 
from  the  table  up  left,  and  returns  to  the  settee, 
where  she  seats  herself  and  opens  it) 

Miss  RAYMOND.    Then  let  me  hear  you  say  it. 

JOHN.    (With  distaste,  in  a  rapid  sing-song) 
''Oh,  young  Lochinvar  has  come  out  of  the  West, 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  is  the  best, 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  none, 
He  rode— he  rode— 

Miss  RAYMOND.  (Prompting  him)  "All  un 
armed — 

JOHN.     "He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode — he 

rode 

He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode — he  rode " 

Darn  it! 

(The  telephone  rings  in  the  hall. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  You  see,  dear,  you  don't  know 
it. 

JOHN.  I  did — said  it  straight  through  to  Frances 
before  dinner.  And  I  could  do  it  now,  too,  if  she'd 
only  keep  still  a  minute.  Hi !  Frances !  Cut  it 
out!  (FRANCES  continues  to  sing  defiantly.  JOHN 
takes  the  book  from  Miss  RAYMOND,  goes  to  the 
chair  to  the  left  of  the  right  pillar,  sits  down  and 
begins  to  study  it.  Then,  as  FRANCES  continues  to 
sing)  Aw,  gee,  have  a  heart !  (The  telephone  rings 
in  the  hall.  STILES,  the  house  man,  comes  into  the 
hall  from  the  left  and  answers  the  telephone.  MR. 
RAYMOND  looks  up  and  listens) 

STILES.     (In  the  hall)    Mr.  Frank  A.  Raymond's 


12  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

residence.      Yes,    sir.      Who    is    speaking,    please? 
(Then    with   great    contempt)      Oh!      (He    comes _ 
through  the  door  center,  and  out  upon  the  veranda) 
The  newspaper  office,  sir.     The  Chronicle. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Thought  so.  Just  hang  up  the 
receiver,  Stiles.  (STILES  starts  to  go  in)  Er,  no — 
wait  a  minute.  I'd  better  talk  to  them,  after  all. 
(STILES  opens  the  door  for  him,  follows  him  in 
center,  and  goes  out  to  the  left.  MR.  RAYMOND  goes 
to  the  telephone) 

JOHN.  Darn  it  all,  I  don't  see  why  I've  got  to 
learn  this. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (In  the  hall,  at  the  telephone) 
Frank  A.  Raymond  speaking.  No !  I  told  one  of 
your  reporters  this  afternoon  that  there  was  no 
truth  in  that  merger  rumor.  No,  I  tell  you— posi 
tively,  no!  What  was  that?  (FRANCES  stops  sing 
ing)  'Hello!  I've  got  nothing  to  say.  If  you  send 
a  reporter  out,  I  won't  see  him.  (He  slams  up  the 
receiver,  then  comes  angrily  out  on  the  veranda) 
Confound  those  newspapers! 

Miss  RAYMOND.  You  don't  want  the  merger 
known  ? 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Not  until  the  papers  are  signed. 

JOHN.  I  thought  you  said  over  the  telephone 
there  wasn't  any  merger. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Angrily)  Learn  your  Apiece  I 
(He  returns  to  the  settee  right  and  picks  up  his  copy 
of  the  merger.  JOHN  subsides  into  his  book.  FRAN 
CES  begins  to  sing  again) 

Miss  RAYMOND.     ( Calling)    Frances! 

FRANCES.    (In  right,  stopping  her  playing)    Yes? 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Do  you  know  it's  seven  o'clock? 
If  you're  going  to  Elinor's  wedding,  you  ought  to 
begin  to  dress.  Do  stop  playing ! 

FRANCES.      (In   right)     Very   well,   Aunt  Janet, 

(FRANCES  appears  in  the  hall  from  the  right  and 

comes  through   th<?  center  door  out  upon   the 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  13 

•  •  \  ' 

veranda.  She  is  about  twenty  years  old,  and 
wears  white  tennis  shoes  a  white  skirt  and  a, 
white  middy  blouse) 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Hasn't  it  cleared  up  beauti 
fully?  I'm  so  glad,  for  Elinor's  sake.  There's 
something  so  messy  about  a  rainy  wedding". 

FRANCES.  (Meditatively)  I  hope  that  on  my 
wedding  day — if  I  ever  have  one — it  will  simply 
pour. 

Miss  RAYMOND.    Good  gracious  !    Why? 

FRANCES.  Because  then  no  one  will  come  to  the 
wedding — except,  of  course,  the  groom.  At  least,, 
I  hope  he'll  come. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  I  think  that's  very  selfish  of 
you.  People  love  to  go  to  weddings. 

FRANCES.  Then  let  them  have  weddings  of  their 
own  and  go  to  them. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  But  when  it  gives  your  friends, 
so  much  pleasure 

FRANCES.  I  shan't  be  getting  married  to  give 
them  pleasure,  Aunt  Janet. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Looking  up  with  a  smile)  I 
hope  you'll  let  me  come,  Frances. 

FRANCES.  Well — yes,  Father,  I  think  you  may 
come — if  you'll  promise  to  wear  your  rubbers  and  a 
mackintosh.  I  can't  have  you  taking  cold.  (She 
goes  right  to  the  settee,  sits  down  to  the  left  of  MR. 
RAYMOND  and  puts  her  arm  around  his  neck) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Beaming)  My  dear,  how  am  I 
going  to  read  ? 

FRANCES.  (Coaxingly)  But  you  don't  want  to 
read,  do  you,  when  you  can  talk  to  me  instead  ? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Tossing  his  copy  of  the  merger 
down  on  the  settee  beside  him  and  putting  his  arm 
round  FRANCES)  Well,  no,  my  dear.  I  don't  be 
lieve  I  do. 

FRANCES.    And  it's  so  wonderful  just  at  twilight. 


14  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

I'm  very  nice  to  talk  to  in  the  twilight.  I'm  at  my 
best  then. 

JOHN.  Bill  Jenkins  had  to  wear  a  blue  velvet 
'suit  when  his  sister  got  married.  But  he  wouldn't 
put  it  on  until  they  gave  him  fifty  cents.  I  wouldn't 
have  done  it  for  that. 

FRANCES.  Then  we  won't  ask  you  to,  John. 
Mine  will  be  a  very  simple  wedding — without  even 
a  blue  velvet  suit. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  When  the  time  for  it  really 
'comes,  you'll  want  it  big  and  fashionable — just  like 
all  the  other  girls, 

FRANCES.    Oh,  Aunt  Janet,  do  you  think  I  will? 

Miss  RAYMOND.     I  do. 

FRANCES.     Then  I  won't  have  any  at  all. 

JOHN.  But  Frances,  you've  got  to  have  a  wed 
ding.  You  can't,  get  married  without  one. 

FRANCES.    Then  I  won't  get  married. 

Miss  RAYMOND.     Nonsense ! 

JOHN.     But  you're  going  to  marry  Ned. 

FRANCES.     Ned?    Ned  Andrews?    Oh,  am  I? 

JOHN.    Well,  that's  what  Father  said. 

FRANCES.  Oh,  I  didn't  know  that.  And  I  don't 
think  Ned  does  either.  (She  gets  up  from  MR. 
RAYMOND'S  side)  Don't  you  think,  Father,  it  might 
be  just  as  well  to  wait  until  it's  settled  before  you 
announce  it?  Of  course  I  don't  mind,  but  it  might 
embarrass  Ned  to  hear  it  first  from  someone  else. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Angrily)  I  never  said  any 
thing  of  the  kind. 

JOHN.  Oh,  Father,  you  did  so.  You  and  Aunt 
Janet  were  talking  in  the  upstairs  sitting-room,  and 
you  thought  I'd  gone  to  bed,  but  I  hadn't,  and 

MR.  RAYMOND.     (Angrily)    Learn  your  piece! 

Miss  RAYMOND.  It  was  very  naughty  of  you  to 
listen  to  things  that  don't  concern  you.  And  besides, 
he  didn't  say  it. 

JOHN.    (In  an  aggravating  sing-song)    Frances's 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  15 

got  a  beau !     Frances's  got  a  beau !     Oh,  Frances! 

FRANCES.  (Laughing)  Johnnie,  you  little  wretch  ! 

MR.  RAYMOND.  John,  if  I  have  to  speak  to  you 
again 

JOHN.  Yes,  sir.  (He  picks  up  his  book  and  goes 
out  right  along  the  path) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Frances,  dear,  John  was  mis 
taken.  I  didn't  actually  say  you  were  going  to 
marry  Ned.  I  only  said 

FRANCES.  Never  mind,  Father.  It  isn't  only  you. 
Everybody  says  it.  Aunt  Janet  says  it 

Miss  RAYMOND.    Why,  Frances,  really 

FRANCES.  Oh,  yes,  you  do,  dear.  Ned  says  it. 
And  last  week  I  overheard  Stiles  telling  it  to  Annie 
in  the  kitchen — and  she  said  it  was  no  news  to  her. 
The  whole  town  seems  to  have  made  up  its  mind 
that  I'm  going  to  marry  Ned  Andrews.  It's  unani 
mous.  (With  a  sigh)  Ah,  well,  I  daresay  you're 
all  right.  Very  likely  I  shall,  some  day.  (She  goes 
down  to  the  ottoman  and  seats  herself,  facing  up 
stage) 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Ned  is  certainly  a  model  young 
man.  He  has  a  real  talent  for  always  doing  the 
proper  thing. 

FRANCES.    It  isn't  talent.    It's  genius. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  And  he's  one  of  the  most  suc 
cessful  young  business  men  in  this  town. 

FRANCES.  I'm  sure  he  must  be.  Or  he  couldn't 
afford  to  send  me  orchids  three  times  a  week.  Oh, 
I  do  hope  he  orders  them  by  the  month  and  gets 
them  at  wholesale  rates. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  /  think  you'll  be  a  very  lucky 
girl  if  you  get  Ned  Andrews. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  But  of  course,  my  dear,  I 
shouldn't  want  anything  7  said  to  influence  you. 

FRANCES.  Then  I'll  try  not  to  let  it.  Still,  I 
don't  think  you  ought  to  tell  me  quite  so  often  how 
eligible  he  is.  I  don't  think  it's  quite  fair  to  him. 


10  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

Miss  RAYMOND.  I  don't  think  it's  quite  fair  to 
him  to  keep  him  waiting,  and  that  you'll  certainly 
do  if  you  don't  hurry.  You  can't  possibly  be  ready 
in  time. 

FRANCES.  For  Elinor's  wedding?  Oh,  I'm  not 
going. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  I  thought  Ned  was  coming  for 
you  in  his  car. 

FRANCES.     I'm  afraid  he  still  is. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Didn't  you  telephone  him  you'd 
changed  your  mind  ? 

FRANCES.  How  could  I,  Aunt  Janet?  I've  just 
changed  it.  And  he  must  have  started  long  ago. 
He  was  to  be  here  at  quarter  past  seven. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Looking  at  his  ivatch)  It's 
seven-twelve  now.  Really,  Frances,  to  let  him  come 
all  the  way  out  from  town  for  you,  and  then  not 

Miss  RAYMOND.  And  after  he  sent  you  such 
beautiful  flowers 

FRANCES.    And  such  expensive  ones  ! 

MR.  RAYMOND.  If  you  hurry,  you  can  still  make 
it. 

FRANCES.  Dress?  In  two  minutes?  Now, 
Father,  stop  flattering  me. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Oh,  well,  he'll  probably  be  a 
little  late. 

FRANCES.  Ah,  how  little  you  know  him.  I'm 
sure  he'd  rather  die  than  be  one  minute  late  for  an 
engagement. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Well,  that's  an  admirable  quality. 

FRANCES.     Admirable.     But  aggravating. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Well;  if  I  were  Ned,  I'd  be  per 
fectly  furious ! 

FRANCES.  Oh,  no  you  wouldn't,  Father.  If  you 
were  Ned,  you'd  think  everything  I  did  was  perfect. 
Whenever  I'm  horrid,  he  takes  all  the  blame  on  him- 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  17 

self.  It's  very  unfair  of  him.  It  makes  me  feel  so 
guilty. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     I  should  think  it  would. 

FRANCES.  It  does.  I'm  beginning  to  feel  guilty 
already.  It  isn't  nice  of  me  to  tease  him,  but  you 
know  I  only  tease  people  I'm  fond  of — and  I'm 
awfully  fond  of  Ned.  Even  if  he  is  punctual. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Looking  at  his  watch)  Well, 
tonight  he  isn't  punctual,  for  it's  seven-fifteen  now. 

FRANCES.  But  here  he  is — precisely  on  the  sec 
ond. 

(NED  walks  on  along  the  path  from  the  left.  He 
is  in  evening  dress,  with  a  linen  automobile 
duster  over  his  arm,  and  he  wears  a  soft  hat) 

NED.  (Coming  up  on  the  veranda)  Good  even 
ing,  Miss  Raymond. 

Miss  RAYMOND.     Good  evening,  Ned. 

(She  shakes  hands  warmly  with  him. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    How  are  you,  Ned? 

NED.  (Walking  over  right  and  shaking  hands 
with  MR.  RAYMOND)  First  rate,  thank  you,  sir. 
(He  lays  his  duster  and  hat  on  the  taborette  right, 
and  comes  doivn  to  FRANCES  with  a  pleased  smile) 
Hello,  Frances. 

FRANCES.    Hello ! 

NED.      I   think   we'd   better  be   starting   for 

(He  gazes  at  her  blankly  and  stops)  Why,  Frances, 
you're  not  dressed!  (Then,  realising  how  this 
sounds,  he  hastens  to  add)  For  the  wedding,  I 
mean. 

FRANCES.    No,  Ned,  I 

NED.  Great  Scott!  Did  I  tell  you  eight-fifteen? 
I  meant  seven-fifteen.  Oh,  Frances,  I  am  sorry! 

FRANCES.  Of  course  you  said  seven-fifteen.  You 
never  make  mistakes. 


18  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

NED.  That's  what  I  thought.  But  how  does  it 
come,  then — 

FRANCES.     I'm  not  going  to  the  wedding,  Ned. 

NED.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Frances?  Aren't 
you  well  ?  What  a  confounded  shame  you  should 
he  laid  up  tonight. 

FRANCES.  Do  you  think  I  look  ill,  Ned?  Am  I 
very  pale? 

NED.  You  look  awfully  sweet.  But — perhaps 
you  are  a  trifle  pale.  I  hope  it's  nothing  serious. 

FRANCES.  Ned,  I  am- ashamed  of  myself.  There's 
nothing  the  matter  with  me.  I  just  decided  I  didn't 
want  to  go — and  it  was  too  late  to  telephone.  You'll 
never  forgive  me — and  I  shan't  blame  you  a  bit ! 

NED.  Why,  that's  all  right,  Frances.  I'm  not 
very  keen  to  go  myself,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it. 

FRANCES.  Then  don't.  Stay  here  with  me.  It's 
a  heavenly  evening,  and  we'll  walk  down  to  the 
river  and 

NED.  Oh,  Frances,  I  wish  I  could.  But  I  prom 
ised  Mrs.  Cortright  particularly  I'd  show  up — 

FRANCES  (Dryly)  Then  of  course  you  must.  I'm 
sorry,  too. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Frances,  you  accepted  Mrs. 
Cortright's  invitation  too,  and  I  think  you  ought  to 

go- 

FRANCES.  It's  too  late  now,  Aunt  Janet.  It's 
'way  down  at  Trinity. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  (Rising)  You'll  be  in  plenty 
of  time  for  the  reception.  I'll  go  upstairs  and  lay 
out  your  things.  Ned,  make  her  go.  (She  goes 
into  the  hall  and  out  to  the  right) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Rising)  Yes,  Ned,  make  her 
go.  (He  follows  her  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the 
right.  There  is  a  moment's  pause,  then  FRANCES 
looks  up  at  NED  with  a  smile) 

FRANCES.  Well,  Ned,  are  you  going  to  make  me 
go? 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  19 

NED.     Make  yon  go?    No,  I'm  not. 

FRANCES.  I  think  if  you  insisted  very,  very  hard, 
I  might  go— perhaps. 

NED.  You  know  I  want  you  to  go.  But  I  shan't 
try  to  make  you.  I  want  you  to  realize,  Frances, 
that  if  you'll  only  marry  me,  I'll  never  insist  on 
anything.  I'll  always  let  you  do  just  as  you  please. 
I'll  always 

FRANCES.  Oh,  please  don't,  dear.  I  know  some 
girls  like  being  proposed  to,  but  I  don't.  I  hate  it. 
It  makes  me  so  unhappy  to  say  "no." 

NED.     Can't  you  sav  "yes?" 

FRANCES.  I  can't.  Oh,  Ned,  if  I  could,  I  would — 
you  know  I  would.  But  please  don't  ask  me  any 
more. 

NED.    You  like  me,  don't  you  ? 

FRANCES.  Of  course  I  like  you — you  know  how 
much  I  like  you — and  always  have.  But  you're 
asking  me  for  something  more  than  that — and  dif 
ferent. 

NED.     I  know  I'm  not  good  enough  for  you. 

FRANCES.  I  won't  have  you  say  that.  It  isn't 
true.  That's  not  the  reason. 

NED.  Then  what  is  it?  I  know  it's  my  own  fault, 
Frances,  that  there's  something  you  want  I  can't 
give  you.  But  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

FRANCES.  And  I  can't  tell  you.  You  must  find 
it  out  for  yourself,  Ned.  All  I  can  do  is  to  give 
you,  now  and  then,  a  tiny  hint. 

NED.  Have  you  ever  given  me  a  hint  ?  (FRANCES 
nods)  And  I  didn't  see  it?  (She  shakes  her  head 
slowly)  I  wish  I  knew  what  it  was. 

FRANCES.  I  wish  you  did,  Ned.  (She  rises,  looks 
at  him  a  moment,  then  goes  over  right  and  stands 
looking  out  through  the  lattice) 

NED.  (After  a  pause)  What  are  you  looking 
at? 

FRANCES.      Nothing.      Just    the    moon    peeping 


20  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

out  from  behind  the  clouds.    Come  here.     It's  beau 
tiful. 

(NED  joins  her  and  they  stand  together  for  a  mo 
ment  in  silence) 

NED.  (At  last)  It  looks  a  little  as  if  it  might 
rain,  but  I  don't  believe  it  will — not  until  after  the 
wedding,  anyhow. 

(FRANCES  makes  a  slight  but  hopeless  gesture,  and 
turns  away.  She  walks  slowly  back  to  the  left, 
humming  softly  "The  Gipsy  Trail" ) 

NED.     (Following  her)    That's  pretty. 

FRANCES.     What? 

NED.     What  you're  humming. 

FRANCES.     Do  you  like  it? 

NED.     Yes.    What  is  it? 

FRANCES.     A  song  called  "The  Gipsy  Trail." 

NED.     That's  right.     So  it  is. 

FRANCES.     (Eagerly)     Do  you  know  it,  too? 

NED.  Heard  it  a  thousand  times.  Old  Ham  Phil 
lips  used  to  bellow  it  at  college. 

FRANCES.    Do  you  remember  the  words? 

NED.  (Knitting  his  forehead,  then  shakes  his 
head.)  Funny,  but  I  can't  recall  'em  to  save  my  life. 
(Turning  to  her  abruptly)  Frances,  if  you  were  to 
give  me  one  of  those  hints  tonight,  I  believe  I'd  see 
it. 

FRANCES.  (Shaking  her  head)  I'm  afraid  you 
wouldn't,  Ned. 

(JOHN  enters  from  the  right  along  the  path.  He 
holds  the  book  in  one  hand  and  is  reciting  in  a 
sing-song,  without  looking  at  it.  He  walks 
very  carefully  in  a  straight  line,  his  eyes  bent 
on  the  ground) 

JOHN. 
"So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  21 

Among-  bridesmen  and  kinsmen  and  brothers  and 

all; 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 
For    the    poor    craven    bridegroom    said    never    a 
word— 

FRANCES.     Come  here  a  minute,  John. 

JOHN.  (Paying  no  attention  to  her  and  still  look 
ing  at  the  ground) 

"  'Oh,  come  ye  in  peace  here  or  come  ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?'  " 

FRANCES.    Johnnie ! 

JOHN.    (Looking  up)    Huh?    Oh,  hello,  Ned. 

NED.    Hello,  Johnnie. 

JOHN.    We  got  your  flowers,  Ned.    (He  continues 
to  recite  to  himself  during  the  next  three  speeches) 
"So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among  bridesmen  and  kinsmen  and  brothers  and 

all; 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand " 

FRANCES.  And  I  never  even  thanked  you  for 
them !  They're  beautiful. 

NED.    Oh,  that's  all  right. 

FRANCES.     Come  over  here  a  minute,  John. 

JOHN.  Uh-uh,  I  can't.  I'm  walking  this  crack, 
and  I  dassent  get  off. 

FRANCES.    Oh,  I  see.    But  can't  you  transfer? 

JOHN.  That's  right,  I  can.  Wait  a  sec.  (He 
rings  an  imaginary  bell)  Ding !  Ding !  (He  comes 
up  on  the  veranda  and  joins  them) 

FRANCES.  Let  me  hear  that  verse  you  were  hav 
ing  such  trouble  with  before  dinner. 

JOHN.  (Handing  her  the  book  open  at  the  place) 
All  right.  I  got  it  down  cold  now. 

(NED  turns  away,  looking  bored. 

FRANCES.  Listen,  Ned — he  really  does  it  very 
well.  Now,  John.  "One  touch " 

JOHN.     (With  fine  declamation) 
"One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 


22  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

When  they  reached  the  hall  door  and  the  charger 

stood  near, 

So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung. 
She  is  won  !     We  are  gone !     Over  bank,  bush  and 

scaur. 

They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,'  quoth  Young 
Lochinvar." 

FRANCES.  Splendid !  I  think  you've  studied 
enough  for  tonight. 

JOHN.  Hurray!  (He  tosses  the  book  down  on 
the  ottoman,  goes  down  on  the  path  and  faces  right) 
Well,  I'm  going  to  start  now.  Will  you  crank  the 
car,  Sis? 

FRANCES.  All  right.  (She  goes  down,  kneels  in 
front  of  him.  and  goes  through  the  motions  of  crank 
ing  an  automobile) 

JOHN.  (After  a  few  preliminary  wheezes)  It's 
kinder  cold.  I  must  give  it  a  richer  mixture.  Now  ! 
(FRANCES  cranks)  R-r-r-r-r-r !  All  right,  good 
bye.  (He  goes  out  to  the  right,  making  strange 
noises,  in  the  character  of  an  automobile.  FRANCES 
joins  NED  again  on  the  veranda ) 

NED.     Johnnie  recites  that  very  well. 

FRANCES.     Ned— 

NED.    Yes  ? 

FRANCES.  Tf  you  want  me  to  go  to  the  wedding 
very  much — 

NED.     Oh,  Frances,  I  wish  you  would  ! 

FRANCES.  Then  I  will.  I  shan't  be  ten  minutes. 
(She  goes  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the  right.  NED 
picks  up  the  book  JOHN  has  left  on  the  ottoman) 

NED.     (Reading) 

"So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung. 
She  is  won  !     We  are — 

(NED  stops,  and  considers  a  moment)    She  is  won! 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  23 

(MR.  RAYMOND  comes  into  the  hall  from  the  right 
and  out  upon  the  veranda.  He  seems  highly 
pleased) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  So  you  persuaded  Frances  to  go 
after  all? 

NED.    Yes.     She's  getting  ready. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Just  a  little  firmness,  Ned — that's 
all  she  needs.  She  has  notions,  but  then,  all  girls 
have.  She'll  outgrow  them,  and — she's  a  splendid 
girl! 

NED.  Yes,  she  is.  (He  hesitates  a  moment)  .  Mr. 
Raymond,  there's  something  I  want  to  ask  you. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     (Smiling)    Yes,  Ned?    Go  on. 

NED.  You  will  probably  be  quite  a  little  sur 
prised — 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Roguishly)  Perhaps  I  won't 
be  quite  so  surprised  as  you  think. 

NED.  Before  I  ask  you,  I  want  to  say  that  I 
think  you  have  known  me  long  enough — 

MR.  RAYMOND.  My  dear  boy,  I've  known  you 
all  your  life — I'm  very  fond  of  you — there  is  no 
one  I'd  rather  have — in  fact,  I've  been  hoping  for 
some  time  that — Now,  what  is  it  you  want  to  ask? 

NED.  If  I  hope  to  win  Frances,  I've  got  to  be  a 
Lochinvar.  Mr.  Raymond,  I  want  your  permission 
to  kidnap  your  daughter. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     What ! 

NED.    I  want  to  kidnap  Frances. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Ned,  are  you  crazy? 

NED.  (Rather  pathetically)  It  isn't  that  I  want 
to  do  it.  She  wants  me  to. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Wants  you  to  kidnap  her?  Did 
$he  say  so  ? 

NED.  Oh,  not  in  so  many  words.  But  she 
dropped  a  hint — and  of  course  I  got  it  immediately. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  But  what  for?  I  don't  see  any 
sense  in  it. 


24  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

NED.  Well,  neither  do  I,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
But  you  know  Frances  is  sort  of — I  don't  know- 
romantic 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Oh,  I  know. 

NED.  And  if  she  wants  to  be  kidnapped,  she  shall 
be — if  I  can  bring  it  about. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Ned,  I'm  surprised  at  you.  I 
always  thought  you  were  so  steady. 

NED.  I'm  surprised  at  myself.  I  never  knew  I 
was  so  reckless  and  impulsive.  But  it's  the  only 
way  for  me  to  win  her— 

MR.  RAYMOND.  And  all  this  time  I  was  hoping 
she'd  really  accepted  you. 

NED.  You  were?  (M^.  RAYMOND  nods)  Then, 
Mr.  Raymond,  help  me.  I  know  I  can  win  her  if 
you'll  just  let  me  kidnap  her. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Don't  keep  harping  on  that  insane 
idea. 

NED.  But  it's  my  only  chance !  And  it  would 
be  so  easy.  My  car  is  here — we'd  start  off  together, 
supposedly  for  the  wedding.  But  we  wouldn't  go 
to  the  wedding  at  all.  Confound  it,  I'll  break  my 
engagement  at  the  Cortright's.  We'd  go  to  "The 
Breakers"— my  place  on  the  lake  shore.  Ellen,  my 
old  nurse,  is  out  there,  you  know.  Probably  we'd  be 
back  tomorrow. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     (Frowning)     Tomorrow? 

NED.  Old  Ellen's  there,  you  know.  It  will  be  all 
right. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Shaking  his  head  decisively ) 
No,  Ned.  Eorget  it !  (He  goes  into  the  hall,  and 
out  to  the  right) 

NED.  But—  (He  stands  a  moment  watching 
MR.  RAYMOND,  then,  with  a  hopeless  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  follows  him  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the 
right.  After  a  moment's  pause  MICHAEL  enters 
along  the  path  from  the  left,  riding  on  ^a  bicycle 
which  he  brings  to  rest  against  the  lattice  at  the 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  25 

right  of  the  veranda.  He  is  a  young  man  of  about 
twenty-nine  wearing  a  shirt  with  a  soft  collar,  a 
wrinkled  suit  of  rough  material  and  a  battered  felt 
hat.  Without  hesitation  he  walks  up  upon  the  ver 
anda  to  the  center  door  and  rings  the  bell  to  the 
left  of  it  firmly  and  for  some  time.  Presently  STILES 
comes  into  the  hall  from  the  left  and  comes  to  the 
door) 

MICHAEL.     Mr.  Raymond  home? 

STILES.    I  will  inquire.      And  who  shall  I  say? 

MICHAEL.     Mr. — Jones. 

STILES.     Jones? 

MICHAEL.     Jones. 

STILES.  Mr.  Raymond  doesn't  know  any  Mr. 
Jones. 

MICHAEL.  Doesn't  he?  Well  now,  that's  odd. 
I  should  have  thought  he  would. 

STILES.  If  you're  the  man  from  The  Chronicle, 
Mr.  Raymond  won't  see  you. 

MICHAEL.  How  long  have  you  been  with  Mr. 
Raymond  ? 

STILES.    About  three  years. 

MICHAEL.    Ah,  yes.    Then  you  wouldn't  know. 

STILES.    Wouldn't  know  what? 

MICHAEL.  I  suppose  you  never  heard  of  his  long- 
lost  son  ? 

STILES.  Long-lost  son  !  Why — there's  just  Mas 
ter  John. 

MICHAEL.  Master  John!  A  younger  brother! 
Good  heavens ! 

STILES.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  Mr.  Ray 
mond's  long-lost  son? 

MICHAEL.  There!  And  I  didn't  mean  to  let  it 
out! 

STILES.  And  am  I  to  tell  Mr.  Raymond  his  long- 
lost,  son  has  come  home  ? 

MICHAEL.  Well,  you  must  use  your  own  judg 
ment  about  that.  The  shock  may  be  very  great — 


25  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

and   I  couldn't  take  the  responsibility.     Do  as  you 
tbiiik  best.     But  I  must  see  him. 
(  STILES  stares  at  him  a  moment,  but  MICHAEL  meets 
his  look  without  flinching,  and  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  STILES  goes  out  to  the  right.    MICH 
AEL  chuckles,  and  walks  over  right  to  the  settee, 
where  his  eye  is  caught  by  the  copy  of  the  mer 
ger  which  MR.  RAYMOND  has  left  lying  there. 
He  picks  it  up,  glances  at  it,  whistles  with  sur 
prise,   then   lays  it  down  again  on  the  settee. 
After  a  moment  MR.  RAYMOND  comes  into  the 
hall  from  the  right,  and  out  upon  the  veranda) 
MR.  RAYMOND.   Good  evening.  Are  you  my  long- 
lost  son? 

MICHAEL.  Your  man  seemed  to  think  I  was. 
But  then,  he  may  be  mistaken. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Of  course  he's  mistaken! 
MICHAEL.    I'm  glad  to  hear  it. 
MR.  RAYMOND.     I  haven't  any  long-lost  son. 
MICHAEL.     Are  you  sure? 
MR.  RAYMOND.     Say,  what  is  this? 
MICHAEL.      I   haven't   the   slightest   intention   of 
claiming  you  for  a  parent. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Then  what  do  you  want? 
MICHAEL.      (With    a   sudden,    disarming   smile) 
Well,  Mr.  Raymond,  what  I  really  want  is  the  in 
formation     concerning     that     merger,      for     The 
Chronicle. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    You're  a  reporter? 
MICHAEL.     Yes. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  And  you  got  me  out  here  by 
lying? 

MICHEAL.  Why  not  call  it  diplomacy?  Without 
it,  you  wouldn't  have  seen  me.  And  now,  if  you 
will  give  me  the  information — 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I  told  your  office  there  was  no 
information — and  that  if  they  sent  a  man  out 
here 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  27 

MICHAEL.  You  needn't  repeat  it.  It  was  I  who 
talked  to  you — from  Mentor. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    And  in  spite  of  that  you  came? 

MICHAEL.  I've  been  sent  out  to  get  that  infor 
mation. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I  tell  you  there  is  no  information. 
Why  the  newspapers  can't  manage  their  infernal 
business  without  the  aid  of  lies 

MICHAEL.  Oh,  it's  much  like  any  other  business. 
Don't  even  you  yourself  occasionally  find  it  neces 
sary 

MR.  RAYMOND.    No,  sir,  I  do  not. 

MICHAEL.  Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  no 
merger  is  contemplated  ? 

MR.  RAYMOND.    That's  what  I  said. 

MICHAEL.  Then  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't. leave 
a  copy  of  it  on  my  porch.  (He  picks  up  the  copy 
of  the  merger  from  the  settee  and  hands  it  to  MR. 
RAYMOND,) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Irritably,  after  a  short  pause) 
Well,  then,  there  is  a  merger.  (He  puts  the  copy  in 
his  pocket) 

MICHAEL.    So  I  see. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  But  as  you  would  also  see,  if 
you  had  any  sense,  the  fact  must  not  come  out  until 
the  terms  are  agreed  upon.  And  yet  you  come  here 
— (He  looks  at  MICHAEL  and  decides  to  change  his 
tactics.  He  points  to  the  chair  to  the  left  of  the 
right  pillar)  Won't  you  sit  down  ? 

MICHAEL.    Thank  you.  (He  sits  down) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Taking  out  his  cigar-case) 
Have  a  cigar  ? 

MICHAEL.    No,  thank  you. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Now  see  here,  my  boy.  I  want 
you  to  keep  this  dark  for  me.  And  anything  I  can 
do  for  you 

MICHAEL.    (Rising,  with  a  smile)    No,  Mr.  Ray- 


28  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

mond.     You  won't  find  much  bribery  in  my  busi 
ness. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Then  you're  going-  to  make  use 
of  information  obtained  in  such  a  way? 
MICHAEL.     I  have  no  information. 
MR.   RAYMOND.     Do   you   mean  to  tell  me  you 
haven't  read  that  agreement? 

MICHAEL.     What  do  you  take  me  for?     A  busi 
ness  man? 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Of  course  you've  read  it,  and 
you'll  go  straight  back  to  your  office — 

MICHAEL.  Oh,  no,  I  won't.  May  I  use  your  tele 
phone  a  moment? 

MR.  RAYMOND.     What  for?     To  tell  them 

MICHAEL.     I  have  nothing  to  tell  them. 
MR.  RAYMOND.     (After  a  pause,  during  which  he 
looks  closely  at  MICHAEL)      Very  well.     In  there 
to  your  right.     (He  points  to  the  door  center) 

MICHAEL.  Thanks.  (He  goes  into  the  hall  to  the 
telephone)  Main  one  two,  please — Hello!  Chron 
icle?  Desk,  please.  Hello,  Jerry.  Jones  at  Kirt- 
land  on  the  Raymond  Chemical  merger.  Nothing 
doing.  And  I  resign.  (He  laughs)  Yes,  I  beat 
you  to  it.  All  right,  old  man.  'Bye.  (He  hangs  up 
the  receiver  and  comes  out  on  the  veranda)  That 
ought  to  satisfy  you. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     I  beg  your  pardon. 
MICHAEL.     Oh,  that's  all  right.     (He  starts  over 
right  toward  his  bicycle)     Good  night. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Wait  a  minute.     Did  you  resign 
from  the  paper? 
MICHAEL.    Yes. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    May  I  ask  why? 
MICHAEL.     Sure.     Because,  if  I  hadn't  resigned, 
I'd  have  been  fired  in  another  ten  seconds. 
MR.  RAYMOND.    What  for? 

MICHAEL.     Failing  to  get  the   story   I  was  sent 
out  for. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  29 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I  don't  want  you  to  lose  your  job 
on  my  account. 

MICHAEL.  Bah!  Don't  give  it  a  moment's 
thought.  It  was  a  rotten  job,  anyhow,  and  I  was 
getting  tired  of  it. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Have  you  another  job? 

MICHAEL.    No. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Then  what  will  you  do? 

MICHAEL.  I  won't  do  anything  for  a  while,, 
I've  got  almost  fourteen  dollars 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Good  heavens  !  Is  that  all  ?  My 
boy,  you've  behaved  very  honorably  in  this  matter, 
and  I  feel  responsible  for  the  loss  of  your  position. 
/  will  give  you  a  job. 

MICHAEL.    What  kind  of  a  job? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Oh,  I  dare  say  they  can  find  a 
place  for  you  on  the  clerical  force. 

MICHAEL.  Bookkeeping?  Sit  indoors  all  day 
adding  up  figures?  Oh,  no!  Thanks  very  much, 
but  I  couldn't  take  it. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Why  not? 

MICHAEL.    Because  it  would  bore  me  to  death. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Well,  when  you're  out  of  a  job, 
young  man,  and  have  only  fourteen  dollars  you  can't 
afford  to  be  particular. 

MICHAEL.  If  I  didn't  have  fourteen  cents  I 
wouldn't  take  a  job  that  didn't  amuse  me. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Young  man,  I  sorry  to  hear  you 
say  that.  I  tell  you  plainly,  it  is  not  the  way  to 
make  a  success  in  life. 

MICHAEL.  It  might  not  be  the  way  for  you — but 
it's  the  way  for  me.  I  don't  believe  many  men  have 
been  so  successful  as  I  have. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Really?  Why,  what  have  you 
accomplished? 

MICHAEL.    I've  been  perfectly  happy. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  And  do  vou  call  that  an  accom 
plishment  ? 


3o  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

MICHAEL.     Rather  !     Don't  you  ? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  No,  I  don't.  You've  beer,  happy  f 
Haven't  you  any  ambition  ? 

MICHAEL.  I  have  boundless  ambition — but  not 
for  money. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I'm  always  suspicious  of  a  man 
who  says  that ;  he's  usually  an  idler.  Every  man 
ought  to  earn  his  own  salt— 

MICHAEL.  Right !  And  that  I've  done,  ever  since 
I  grew  up.  I  could  have  had  plenty  of  soft  jobs — 
jobs  that  you  would  anprovc  of.  And  if  Fd  taken 
one  of  them,  I  nvVht  by  this  time  be  rich  and  miser 
able.  But  T  didn't,  thank  God  !  I  started  in  as  a 
waiter  in  a  Childs  restaurant,  and  since  then  I've 
done  all  sorts  of  different  things  all  over  the  world— 
I've  sounded  the  heights  and  depths  of  life — and 
I've  had  a  bully  time!  But  I've  worked,  too- 
worked  like  a  dog,  at  jobs  that  would  crumple  up 
some  of  your  rising  young  business  men  in  about 
thirty  seconds. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Don't  you  want  to  do  something 
in  the  world. 

MICHAEL.  I  have  done  something  in  the  world; 
quite  as  much,  very  likely,  as  you  have.  You're 
what  is  called  a  success,  but  it's  made  you  a  special 
ist.  You  can  manufacture  chemicals  and  you  can 
sell  them — but  what  else  can  you  do  ? 
MR.  RAYMOND.  What  else? 

MICHAEL.    Can  you  wipe  a  plumber's  joint?    Can 
you  assemble  an  automobile  ?    Can  you  cook  Chicken 
a  la  King?     Can  you  climb  the  Matterhorn — drive 
an  aeroplane?    Did  you  ever  shoot  a  hippopotamus 
— and  would  you  know  how  to  go  about  it?     Can 
you  drive  an  engine?     Play  the  ukelele?     Did  you 
ever  mine  gold  ?    Can  you  row  a  gondola — dive  for 
pearls?    Lassoo  a  mustang? 
MR.  RAYMOND.     Why — no. 
MICHAEL.     Well,  /  can. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  31 

MR.  RAYMOND.  But — but — but  I  don't  want  to 
do  any  of  those  things? 

MICHAEL.  Honestly  ?  Then  you're  even  worse 
off  than  I  thought.  I've  sailed  on  a  whaler,  I  revo 
lutionized  the  sanitation  of  a  town  in  Guatemala, 
for  five  weeks  I  was  a  general  in  the  Army  of  Para 
guay,  and  I've  built  a  bridge  in  the  Andes.  That 
is  one  thing  I'm  proud  of ;  it  was  a  good  bridge. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  But — great  heavens  ! — if  you're 
an  engineer,  why  don't  you  keep  at  it?  You  could 
earn 

MICHAEL.  Of  course  I  could.  But,  good  Lord, 
man!  I've  built  one  bridge.  You  don't  suppose  I 
want  to  build  another  ? 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Oh,  you're  crazy  ! 

MICHAEL.  No,  I'm  happy.  I  never  worry,  and 
there's  always  something  new.  The  world  is  full  of 
romance  and  adventure ;  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  go- 
out  and  find  it. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  But  you'll  have  to  settle  down 
sometime. 

MICHAEL.    Why? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Well,  some  day  you'll  want  to 
marry,  and  then — 

MICHAEL.    No.    I  don't  want  to  marry. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    But  you  said  you  were  romantic. 

MICHAEL.  What  has  marriage  to  do  with  ro 
mance  ? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Oh,  I  suppose  you  have  advanced 
ideas  about  that,  too. 

MICHAEL.  No.  Just  because  I  said  I  was  ro 
mantic,  you  think,  of  course,  that  I'm  crazy  about 
women.  I'm  not.  They  play  only  a  small  part  in 
romance.  The  main  thing — it's  adventure.  I've 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  marry,  and  I  shan't. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Why  not? 

MICHAEL.  Because  marriage  means  responsibil 
ity — and  I  don't  want  responsibility.  I  dread  it — 


32  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

I'm  afraid  of  it — it's  the  only  thing  I  am  afraid  of. 
It  would  mean  the  end  of  all  I  care  for.  Tied  down, 
forced  to  stay  in  one  place,  to  make  a  position  for 
your  family — no,  thanks ! — none  of  that  for  me. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Have  you  never  fallen  in  love? 

MICHAEL.  (Laughing)  Times  without  number  ! 
I'm  always  losing  my  head  over  some  girl,  and  when 
that  happens,  I  throw  prudence  to  the  winds  and 
fly  after  her.  But  my  lucky  star  always  saves  me. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     How  do  you  mean? 

MICHAEL.  Once  I've  met  her,  I  find  I  don't 
want  her.  She  always  falls  so  far  short  of  my  ideal 
of  her. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     You  must  be  particular. 

MICHAEL.  I  should  say  I  am.  It's  my  salvation! 
Suppose  I  weren't?  Where  should  I  be  now? 
Married ! 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Chuckling)  Young  man,  some 
where  in  your  future  there  is  awaiting  you  a  great 
and  painful  surprise.  Your  scheme  of  life  is  inter 
esting  and  I  don't  doubt  it  is  amusing,  but  it  won't 
work. 

MICHAEL.    Why  not? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  You're  trying  to  evade  respon 
sibility — and  you  can't.  Run  as  you  will,  my  lad, 
run  clear  around  the  world,  it  will  catch  you  some 
day.  And  then — look  out ! 

MICHAEL.  "He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels 
alone."  I  can  show  a  clean  pair  of  heels  to  plodding 
old  responsibility. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  And  what  about  Nature?  You're 
human,  I  suppose? 

MICHAEL.     I  suppose  so. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Then  beware !  For  somewhere 
a  girl  is  waiting  for  you — and  when  she  begins  To 
sing,  you'll  follow,  my  lad — you'll  follow.  It  will 
be  a  rare  sight. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  33 

(NED  comes  rushing  enthusiastically  into  the  hall 
from  the  right,  and  out  upon  the  veranda,  his 
face  beaming) 

NED.  Mr.  Raymond,  I  thought  of  the  most  won 
derful  way  out—  -  (Then  as  he  sees  MICHAEL) 
Oh,  excuse  me. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Come  on  out,  Ned,  meet  Mr. 

(Turning  to  MICHAEL)  Jones,  is  it?  Mr.  Andrews. 

NED.    Very  pleased,  I'm  sure. 

MICHAEL.     How  are  you? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Mr.  Jones  is  quite  crazy,  Ned. 
But  otherwise  he's  as  interesting  a  young  man  as 
I've  ever  met. 

NED.  (Politely)  I'm  sure  that's  only  Mr.  Ray 
mond's  joke. 

MICHAEL.  Oh,  it's  quite  possible  he's  right.  They 
told  me  the  same  thing  in  France. 

NED.    Oh,  you've  been  in  France? 

MICHAEL.  Yes.  French  aeroplane  service  for 
about  six  months. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  You  astounding  man,  you've 
been  everywhere. 

MICHAEL.  I'd  be  there  yet,  only —  Well,  when 
your  plane  falls  seven  hundred  feet  with  you,  it  does 
smash  you  up.  So  they  hung  a  war  cross  on  me  and 
sent  me  home  for  repairs. 

NED.  It  must  have  been  very  interesting.  I  sup 
pose  you'll  be  writing  a  book  about  your  experi 
ences. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Ned,  you've  guessed  it!  (Turn 
ing  to  MICHAEL)  You're  going  to  make  a  book  of 
your  adventures ! 

MICHAEL.  And  sell  it!  How  like — how  exactly 
like  a  business  man!  Of  course  I  shall  do  nothing 
of  the  sort.  I  am  an  amateur — an  amateur  roman 
tic,  I  do  nothing  except  for  the  fun  of  the  thing. 


34  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

NED.     I  thought  all  romantic  people  wrote  books. 

MICHAEL.  Judging  from  the  literary  output  of 
the  last  ten  years,  I  should  say  none  of  them  did. 
At  any  rate,  I  don't.  I  am  the  only  living  American 
who  has  served  in  the  French  Army  who  has  not 
written  a  book.  That  is  my  one  legitimate  boast. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  You  should  hear  him  tell  of  his 
adventures. 

NED.  I'd  like  to.  I'd  like  to  know  a  lot  of  ro 
mantic  things  to  talk  about. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Then  Mr.  Jones  is  your  man. 
But  isn't  Frances  ready  ? 

NED.  Well,  she  said  she'd  only  be  ten  minutes, 
but— 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Ah,  Jones,  do  you  hear  that? 
Patiently  waiting  for  a  capricious  girl.  One  of 
these  days,  that  will  be  your  fate. 

MICHAEL.     Good  Lord  !     I  hope  not ! 

NED.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Raymond,  but  if  I  could 
have  just  a  word  with  you  before  she  comes 
down 

MICHAEL.     I'll  say  good-night. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  No,  no!  Don't  go  yet.  I  may 
be  able  to  think  of  some  job  that  would  be  suf 
ficiently  exciting  for  you. 

MICHAEL.     Afraid  not,  thanks. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  You  never  can  tell.  Have  a 
cigar,  at  least. 

MICHAEL.  Thanks.  (He  takes  a  cigar  from  the 
case  MR.  RAYMOND  holds  out  to  him,  goes  over  left 
and  lights  it) 

MR.  RAYMOND.     (Turning  to  NED)     Now,  Ned. 

NED.  Mr.  Raymond — it  was  about  the  kidnap 
ping 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Now  don't  re-open  that,  Ned. 
NED.     But   if   I   were  to  have  my   grandmother 
come  out  and  chaperone  us 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  35 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Mrs.  Widdimore?  She'd  never 
come. 

NED.  Yes,  she  would.  Oh,  Mr.  Raymond,  do 
say  "yes."  It  means  so  much  to  me. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (After  a  pause)  Very  well. 
But  only  if  your  grandmother  will  chaperone  you. 
You'd  better  call  her  up  and  make  sure. 

NED.  Right  away  !  (He  rushes  into  the  hall  to 
the  telephone)  Prospect  3072,  please. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (To  MICHAEL,)  I  like  you, 
young  man,  and  I'd  like  to  do  something  for  you. 

MICHAEL.  And  I  like  you.  But  I'm  afraid  you 
can't. 

NED.  (At  the  telephone)  Hello?  Is  Mrs.  Wid 
dimore  there?  In  bed?  At  this  hour?  Yes,  Kate, 
this  is  Mr.  Edward.  Wake  her  up ! 

MICHAEL.  Even  if  I  took  a  job  with  you,  I'd  be 
tired  of  it  in  a  few  months  and  want  to  change. 

NED.  (At  the  telephone)  Wait  a  minute,  I  can't 
hear  you.  Hello,  grandma !  This  is  Edward.  I 
want  you  to  come  right  out  to  "The  Breakers"  arid 
spend  the  night — Oh,  yes,  you  can.  Well,  you  can 
get  dressed.  Please,  grandma — it's  awfully  impor 
tant.  I'll  explain  later.  Oh,  now  grandma,  you 
mustn't  refuse.  Wait  a  minute,  grandma — don't 
hang  up  !  I'll  tell  you  the  reason — it's — it's — it's — 
Ellen — yes,  my  old  nurse  Ellen  out  there,  you  know. 
She's  been  taken  awfully  sick,  and  I  thought  if  you 
would  only  come  out. — Yes,  it  was  sudden.  I'm 
at  the  Raymonds — they  just  'phoned  me  and  I'm 
starting  for  the  Lake  Shore  at  once — Then  you'll 
meet  me  there  ?  Oh,  thank  you.  I  knew  you  would. 
Just  as  quick  as  you  can !  (He  hangs  up  the  re 
ceiver  and  comes  out  on  the  veranda)  I've  fixed  it. 
She's  coming. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  There,  Mr.  Jones,  is  an  example 
of  real  business  efficiency. 

NED.    Yes,  I  think  I  did  that  rather  well. 


36  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

(STILES  enters  the  hall  from  the  left  with  MR.  RAY 
MOND'S  hat  and  overcoat.  He  comes  out  on  the 
veranda) 

STILES.  Wilson  is  at  the  front  door  with  th? 
car,  Air.  Raymond.  (He  helps  MR.  RAYMOND  on 
with  his  coat,  hands  him  his  hat  and  goes  into  the 
hall  and  out  to  the  left.) 

MICHAEL.  I  sec  you  don't  even  need  a  chauffeur. 
I  might  qualify  for  that.  I  have  excellent  references 
somewhere. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Can't  I  give  you  a  lift  into  town? 

MICHAEL.  No,  thanks.  (He  'points  to  his  bicycle, 
leaning  against  the  lattice)  I  have  a  chariot  of  my 
own.  I  bought  it  in  Mentor  for  three  dollars  and 
a  quarter — and  I  got  stung.  Good  night.  I  hope 
the  merger  is  a  great  success.  (He  goes  ov*r  to  the 
right,  picks  up  his  bicycle  and  walks  off  with  it 
along  the  path  to  the  right) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Well,  good  night.  (Then,  turn 
ing  to  NED)  Good  luck,  Ned.  (He  walks  alonq  the 
path  off  left) 

NED.  Good  night.  (The  telephone  rings,  MICH 
AEL  walks  on  again  from  the  right,  pushing  his 
bicycle,  and  brings  it  to  rest  again  against  the  right 
lattice)  Hello,  what's  the  matter? 

MICHAEL.  (Kneeling  down  and  investigating) 
Oh,  a  flat  tire.  Thought  I'd  bring  it  back  here  under 
the  light  and  try  to  fix  it. 

(STILES  enters  the  hall  from  the  left  and  goes  to  the 
telephone) 

STILES.  (At  the  telephone)  Mr.  Andrews  ?  Just 
a  minute,  please. 

NED.  (Starting  for  the  hall)  T  wonder  what's 
the  matter?  (He  goes  into  the  hall  and  takes  the 
telephone  from  STILES,  who  goes  out  to  the  left.  In 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  37 

the  meantime  MICHAEL  sets  to  work  zvith  a  small 
pump  to  locate  the  puncture)  Hello?  Grandma? 
You  can't  come?  Why  not?  Oh,  but  see  here, 
Grandma,  you've  got  to  come.  Hire  a  taxi !  Oh, 
well,  then,  if  you  insist,  I'll  come  for  you  myself. 
(He  hangs  up  the  receiver  and  comes  out  on  the 
veranda)  Doesn't  that  beat  the  dickens? 

MICHAEL.    What's  wrong? 

NED.    Oh,  these  drunken  chauffeurs. 

MICHAEL.    What's  the  matter? 

NED.  I've  got  to  drive  my  grandmother.  I  don't 
know  what  to  do!  Say,  can  you  drive  a  car? 

MICHAEL.    Has  it  got  four  wheels  ? 

NED.    Why,  of  course  it  has.     It's  a  Packard. 

MICHAEL.    Then  I  can  drive  it. 

NED.  I  thought  I  heard  you  tell  Mr.  Raymond 
you'd  been  a  chauffeur.  Well,  I'll  engage  you  for 
tonight. 

MICHAEL.  I'd  like  to  know  something  about  the 
job  first.  Is  there  any  fun  in  it? 

NED.  You're  to — well,  kidnap  a  young  lady — 
Miss  Raymond. 

MICHAEL.    Say  on. 

NED.  You're  to  drive  my  car  up  here,  tell  her 
I've  been  unexpectedly  called  to  town,  and  that  you 
are  going  to  take  her  to  Mrs.  Cortright's,  where  I'll 
join  her  later. 

MICHAEL.    And  then? 

NED.  But  you  don't  take  her  there  at  all.  You 
drive  her  to  "The  Breakers,"  my  place  on  the  Lake 
Shore  Boulevard.  It's  next  door  to  the  Bainbridge 
place,  just  beyond  Coit  road.  Do  you  know  it? 

MICHAEL.    I  can  find  it. 

NED.  In  the  meantime,  I'll  borrow  Mr.  Ray 
mond's  roadster,  go  get  grandma  and  meet  you 
there.  Now  how  much  would  you  want  to  do  it  ? 

MICHAEL.  A  kidnapping  with  a  grandmother 
thrown  in  ? 


38  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

NED.     Yes. 

MICHAEL.  Appeals  to  nothing-  but  my  sense  of 
humor.  Can't  take  the  job. 

NED.  Oh,  come  on  !  Please  do.  I'll  give  you 
fifty  dollars. 

MICHAEL.     (Laughing)     Not  for  fifty  thousand. 

(FRANCES  comes  into  the  hall  from  the  right,  and, 
opening  the  screen  doors,  comes  half  way  out 
on  the  veranda.  She  is  in  evening  dress) 

FRANCES.     I'll  be  ready  in  just  a  minute,  Ned. 

NED.    All  right,  Frances.     Don't  hurry. 

FRANCES.  I've  just  to  get  my  coat.  (She  goes 
out  to  the  r'ght.  She  has  not  seen  MICHAEL, 
but  he  stands  staring  after  her) 

MICHAEL.     Is  that  the  girl  you  want  kidnapped? 

NED.  Yes.  Won't  you  help  me  out?  It's  my 
only  chance ! 

MICHAEL..  Oh,  well,  rather  than  spoil  the  party, 
I'll  do  it. 

NED.  Oh,  that's  splendid.  Now  come  with  me 
to  the  garage — quick  !  (He  picks  up  his  hat  and 
duster  and  hastens  out  alonq  the  path  to  the  left. 
MICHAEL  follows  him  off.  They  have  scarcely  dis 
appeared  when  FRANCES  comes  into  the  hall  from 
the  right,  wearing  an  evening  wrap,  and  comes  to 
the  door) 

FRANCES.  Ned !  (She  looks  about,  and  sees  that 
he  is  gone) 

Miss  RAYMOND.  (In  right)  Are  you  going, 
dear? 

FRANCES.  Ned's  getting  the  car.  (She  goes  in  to 
the  right.  She  is  presently  heard  at  the  piano  and 
begins  to  sing ) 

"The  wild  hawk  to  the  wind-swept  skv, 
The  deer  to  the  wholesome  woM, 
And  the  heart  of  a  m«?n  to  the  heart  of  a  maid," 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  39 

(MICHAEL  walks  0"  from  the  left,  wearing  a  linen 
duster.  He  walks  up  on  the  veranda,  and  stands 
listening) 

"As  it  was  in  the  days  of  old. 
The  heart  of  a  man  to  the  heart  of  a  maid- 
Light  of  my  tents,  be  fleet ! 
Morning  waits  at  the  end  of  the  world 
And  the  world  is  all  at  our  feet !" 
(The  singing  stops  and  FRANCES  comes  into  the  hall 
from  right  and  out  upon  the  veranda.     She  stops 
suddenly,  as  she  sees  MICHAEL )     Well,  what  is  it? 

MICHAEL.  Mr.  Andrews'  chauffeur,  Miss  Ray 
mond.  Mr.  Andrews  has  been  suddenly  called  to 
town  on  important  business,  and  borrowed  Mr. 
Raymond's  roadster.  He  wished  me  to  give  you  his 
apologies. 

FRANCES.    What  a  perfect  shame ! 

MICHAEL.  He  left  instructions  to  drive  you  to 
Mrs.  Cortright's,  where  he  will  join  you  himself  very 
shortly. 

FRANCES.  Oh,  very  well.  Good  night,  Aunt 
Janet. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  (In  right)  Good  night.  Have 
a  nice  time. 

FRANCES.  (Turning  to  MICHAEL)  By  the  way, 
has  Mr.  Andrews  discharged  Donald? 

MICHAEL.  Donald  did  not  meet  Mr.  Andrews' 
present  requirements. 

FRANCES.  Oh.  (She  walks  out  left  along  the 
pathway.  MICHAEL  follows  her  off.  Just  as  he 
disappears  to  the  left,  JOHN  enters  from  the  right 
along  the  pathway,  reciting  aloud) 

JOHN. 

"Oh,  young  Lochinvar  has  come  out  of  the  West, 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  is  the  best, 
And  save  his  good " 

The  curtain  falls 


ACT  II 

SCENE:  The  scene  represents  a  room  in  Edward 
Andrews'  summer  cottage,  "The  Breakers"  on 
the  Lake  Shore  Boulevard.  The  entrance  door 
way  'is  in  the  right  wall,  well  downstage.  A 
portion  of  a  small  cntrance-Jiall  may  be  seen 
beyond  it.  There  is  a  door  in  the  rear  wall  and 
another  in  the  left  wall,  both  very  near  the 
upper  left  corner  of  the  room.  When  these 
doors  are  opened,  a  sligJit  glimpse  may  be  had 
of  the  rooms  beyond.  The  upper  right  corner 
of  the  room  is  completely  cut  off  by  a  large 
window,  through  which  one  gets  the  effect  of 
the  sky  on  a  moonlight  night. 
Near  this  window  is  a  table,  with  a  few  books 
upon  it.  A  long  table  stands  against  the  rear 
wall,  with  twin  lamps  placed  at  each  end. 
There  is  an  armchair  down  rigJit  and  another 
one  down  left ;  and  a  long,  low,  upholstered  seat 
is  placed  well  downstage,  a  little  to  the  left  of 
center. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  room  and  entrance- 
hall  are  brightly  lighted.     The  stage  is  empty. 
NED  may  be  heard  off  right. 
NED.     Now,  you  see,  grandma,  it  wasn't  such  a 
bad  trip  after  all.      (NED  comes  in  right,  wearing 
his  duster,  and  supporting  MRS.  WIDDIMORE,  a  slen 
der  and  beautiful  old  lady,  dressed  in  a  heavy  coat, 
with  a  veil  about  her  head)    Here  we  are  and  every 
thing  is  all  right. 

40 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  41 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Everything  is  not  all  right. 
The  trip  was  frightful.  You  skidded  four  times, 
and  I'm  chilled  to  the  marrow. 

NED.    There,  there,  there,  grandma ! 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Nothing  but  Ellen's  illness 
could  have  induced  me  to  venture  out  this  damp 
evening. 

NED.  Now  just  a  few  steps  more  to  that  nice 
easy  chair 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Don't  clutch  my  arm !  I'm 
not  an  invalid.  Go  away !  ( She  motions  him  away, 
walks  to  the  armchair  down  right,  settles  herself, 
then  turns  to  NED)  Now  what's  the  matter  with 
Ellen? 

NED.  (Hesitating)  We-ell,  grandma — I'll  just 
run  the  car  into  the  garage  first ;  then  I'll  explain. 
(He  starts  for  the  door  right) 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Does  the  doctor  think  it's 
serious  ? 

NED.    The  doctor? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Edward  Andrews,  do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  you  haven't  had  a  doctor  for 
that  poor,  faithful  old  creature,  when  she's  so  des 
perately  ill? 

(ELLEN  enters  through  the  door  in  the  rear — a  hale 
and  hearty  old  woman) 

ELLEN.  Oh,  Mrs.  Widdimore  and  Master  Neddy. 
I  thought  I  heard  the  automobile.  How  wonderful 
well  you're  looking. 

(NED  takes  off  his  duster  and  places  it,  with  his 
hat,  on  the  table  by  the  window  up  right) 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Ellen,  why  aren't  you  in 
bed? 

ELLEN.  In  bed?  Me?  With  you  and  Master 
Neddy  coming? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     (Who  has  been  scanning  her 


42  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

face  closely)  Well,  you  don't  look  sick.  Edward 
Andrews,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  deception  ? 

NED.     Now  grandma,  dorit  excite  yourself. 

MRS.  WIDD-IMORE.  Look  at  her!  (Pointing  to 
ELLEN)  The  very  picture  of  health!  And  you 
tell  me  that  she's  desperately  ill. 

ELLEN.  Me?  Why,  Master  Neddy,  where  could 
you  'a-got  such  a  notion  ? 

NED.     (Feebly)     It  was  just  a  joke,  Ellen. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     It  was  a  bare-faced  lie. 

NED.    Ellen,  bring  grandma  a  glass  of  sherry. 

ELLEN.  (Starting  for  the  door  in  the  rear) 
Wrell,  some  folks  has  odd  ideas  of  jokes. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     I  quite  agree  with  Ellen. 

ELLEN.  (Stopping  at  the  door  in  the  rear,  and 
turning)  Master  Neddy,  what  time  is  the  young 
lady  coming? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Young  lady?  Ah!  I  begin  to 
see  a  light. 

ELLEN.    I  want  to  know,  because  of  supper. 

NED.    I've  been  expecting  her  every  minute. 

ELLEN.  I  telephoned  to  the  Country  Club  for 
some  ice-cream 

(ELLEN  goes  out  through  the  door  in  the  rear. 

NED.     Now,  grandma — see  here. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  You  need  explain  no  further, 
Edward.  I  see  you've  been  trying  to  make  me  a 
chaperone  under  protest.  Oh,  why  did  I  leave  my 
room?  There  I  lay,  comfortably  propped  up  with 
pillows,  enjoying  the  company  of  "The  Three  Mus 
keteers " 

NED.    Who  are  they? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  (Tartly)  It's  a  book.  Now 
take  me  home  to  my  nice  warm  bed,  and  allow  me 
to  resume  my  interrupted  adventures  with  D'Ar- 
tagnan.  (She  rises) 

NED     But  grandma  !    This  is  serious.    I'm  in  love 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  43 

with  Frances,  I  want  to  marry  her.  And  if  you 
don't  stay 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.    You  want  to  marry  who? 

NED.    Why,  Frances  Raymond. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Frances  Raymond !  Oh,  that 
would  never  do — never  in  the  world !  ( She  crosses 
over  to  the  left) 

NED.    Don't  you  like  her? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Of  course  I  like  her.  She's 
a  very  sweet  child.  But  no  more  fitted  to  be  your 
wife — No,  Edward,  I  most  decidedly  object  to  your 
marrying  her. 

NED.    But  why  ? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  She's  almost  as  conventional 
as  you  are.  WV11  find  some  nice,  romantic  boy  for 
her — if  such  a  thing-  is  to  be  found  in  these  days, 
when  all  the  young  men  are  playing  the  stock- 
market  instead  of  the  guitar.  And  you  shall  marry  a 
romantic  girl. 

NED.  Well,  Frances  is  romantic.  She's  the  most 
romantic  girl  I  ever  saw. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Frances  Raymond?  Roman 
tic?  Edward,  you're  a  fool. 

NED.  She  is,  too,  romantic.  Why,  grandma — 
she  wants  to  be  kidnapped, — by  some  man. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.    Of  course  she  does. 

NED.    Of  course? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Every  girl  wants  to  be  kid 
napped  some  time  in  her  life.  7  wanted  to  be  kid 
napped. 

NED.     You,  grandma? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Don't  gape  at  me,  Edward.  I 
wasn't  born  with  spectacles  and  white  hair.  I  was 
a  headstrong  girl  once,  and — I  can  say  it  now — a 
very  lovely  girl.  I  longed  to  be  kidnapped — 

NED.    By  grandpa? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Don't  ask  impertinent  ques 
tions.  (She  sits  down  in  the  armchair  down  left) 


44  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

NED.  Well,  /  have  kidnapped  Frances  Ray 
mond 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Bravo,  Edward !  I  begin  to 
entertain  hopes  of  you. 

NED.  Now  you  see  you've  got  to  stay.  Mr.  Ray 
mond  wouldn't  let  me  kidnap  her  unless  you  came 
too. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Edward,  you  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  you  went  to  Frank  Raymond  and  asked  his 
permission. 

NED.    Of  course  I  did.  I  had  to. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Edward,  you  will  be  the  death 
of  me  yet — you  really  will.  (She  loosens  her  coat 
and  takes  off  her  veil) 

NED.     Ah,  then  you're  going  to  stay? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Nothing  could  induce  me  to 
go.  I  wouldn't  miss  this  for  a  million  dollars. 

NED.  That's  splendid.  (Looks  at  his  watch)  It's 
nearly  ten,  and  they  must  have  left  the  Raymonds' 
before  eight.  I  don't  see  what's  keeping  them. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Edward !  You  didn't  let 
someone  else  do  your  kidnapping  for  you? 

IED.  I  had  to — a  fellow  named  Jones  I  picked 
up  there.  Mr.  Raymond  knew  him — he's  a  chauf 
feur. 

MRS.  WTIDDIMORE.  You  entrusted  the  girl  you  love 
to  a  strange  chauffeur? 

NED.  Well,  not  exactly  a  chauffeur,  either.  He's 
one  of  those  romantic  chaps  you're  always  talking 
about.  He's  sort  of  an  adventurer. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  An  adventurer?  Don't  stand 
there  blinking  at  me  in  that  aggravating  way  !  Don't 
you  realize  that  he's  probably  kidnapped  her  in  good 
earnest  ? 

NED.  Good  heavens !  You  don't  think  that,  do 
you? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  They're  probably  half  way  to 
Buffalo  by  this  time.  (NED  seises  his  hat  and  duster 


.     THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  45- 

from  the  table  up  right)     Where  are  von  ^oinjr? 
NED.    After  them. 

MRS.  WTDDIMORE.  But,  Edward,  it's  a  wild-goose- 
chase. 

NED.  Never  mind.  I'll  get  track  of  them  some 
how—  11  see  the  police. 

MRS.  WTDDTMORE.  I  almost  think  you  had  better. 
Oh,  Edward,  why  did  you  undertake  this?  It- 
would  be  dreadful  if 

NED.  And  you're  the  one  who  wanted  Frances  to 
marry  a  romantic  man.  Well,  I  hope  you're  satis 
fied. 

MRS.  WTDDTMORE.     Oh,  Edward,  hurry! 
^NED.     I'm  off.     I -wish  I'd  never  tried  the  thing-. 
It's   been    more   trouble   than   a    dinner   of   twenty 
covers.    (He  goes  out  right.    Presently  the  sound  of 
an  automobile  engine  is  heard,  then  it  dies  away) 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     (Calling)     Ellen! 

(ELLEN   appears  at  the   door  in  the  rear,  with  a 
glass  of  sherry  on  a  tray) 

MRS.  WTDDTMORE.  I  don't  want  that.  There 
won't  by  any  supper  party,  Ellen. 

ELLEN.     And  why  not'? 

MRS.  WTDDTMORE."  There  won't  be  anyone  to  eat 
it.  Miss  Frances  is  lost,  and  Edward  is  out  search 
ing  the  highways  for  her. 

ELLEN.  Oh,  dear!  And  the  supper  all  but 
cooked. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Then  you  eat  it.  And  you 
may  as  well  go  to  bed,  for  there's  no  telling  when 
Edward  will  be  back. 

(MRS._  WIDDIMORE  goes  out  left,  closing  the  door  be 
hind  her.  ELLEN  turns  out  all  the  lights  in  the 
room  by  a  switch  which  is  at  the  left  of  the 
door  in  the  rear.  The  room  is  now  lighted  only 
by  the  moonlight  seen  through  the  large  window 


46  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

tip  right;  and  by  a  light  from  the  small  en- 
\  trance-hall  to  the  right,  which  falls  upon  the 
armchair  down  right.  ELLEN  goes  out  the 
door  in  the  rear,  closing  if  behind  her.  A  brief 
pause.  Then  the  sound  of  an  approaching  au 
tomobile  is  heard,  and  presently  MICHAEL  en 
ters  th^  doorway  right,  carrying  FRANCES  in  his 
arms) 

FRANCES.  Let  me  go  !  How — how  dare  you? 
Put  me  down ! 

MICHAEL.  Certainly.  (He  places  her  in  the  ann- 
'Chair  down  right,  where  the  light  from  the  entrance 
hall  falls  full  upon  her.  Pier  opera  cloak  falls  back 
upon  the  chair)  I'm  sorry  I  had  to  carry  you,  but 
since  you  wouldn't  walk ( He  shrugs  his  shoul 
ders)* 

FRANCES.     Wh — where  am  I? 
MICHAEL.     You  are  "somewhere  in  Cleveland." 
I  can't  be  more  definite.     (He  takes  off  his  duster 
and  places  it,  with  his  hat,  on  the  table  by  the  win 
dow  up  right) 

FRANCES.  Just  wait  until  Mr.  Andrews  hears  of 
the  disgraceful  way  you've  acted !  Oh,  I've  never 
been  on  such  a  ride  in  my  whole  life — in  and  out 
of  parks,  back  and  forth  across  viaducts — oh,  and 
when  I  think  of  the  way  you  skidded  around  cor 
ners  !  No  wonder  I  was  dizzy !  No  wonder  I  lost 
all  sense  of  direction !  No  wonder  I  haven't  the 
remotest  idea  where  I  am ! 
MICHAEL.  I  counted  on  that. 
FRANCES.  I  don't  believe  you  went  less  than 
forty  miles  an  hour  from  the  time  we  started.  I 
saw  five  policemen  take  your  number. 

MICHAEL.  Never  mind — it  isn't  my  car.  But 
wasn't  it  a  glorious  ride? 

FRANCES.     I  was  frightened  to  death — and  yet, 

*  See  "Notes  on  Production,"  on  Page  94. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  47 

somehow — I  wasn't,  either.  You  drive  wonder 
fully. 

MICHAEL.    Thank  you. 

FRANCES.  It  was  a  perfectly  beastly  ride.  I'm 
furious  about  it.  And  as  for  Mr.  Andrews — he'll 
discharge  you,  see  that  you  lose  your  license — and 
I  hope  he'll  have  you  arrested 

MICHAEL.    He  can't. 

FRANCES.  Why  not?  (MICHAEL  smiles  but  does 
not  answer)  Why  not?  (Still  MICHAEL  does  not 
answer.  FRANCES  rises)  Aren't  you  Mr.  Andrews1 
chauffeur  ? 

MICHAEL.  I  wondered  how  long-  it  would  be  be 
fore  you  guessed  that. 

FRANCES.  (Frightened)  I  want  yots  to  take  me 
to  Mrs.  Cortright's  immediately. 

MICHAEL.  I  regret  more  that  I  can  say  that  my 
instructions  forbid  it. 

FRANCES.  Who  gave  you  these  dreadful  instruc 
tions  ? 

MICHAEL.     The  gentleman  who  is  employing-  me. 

FRANCES.    Wrho  is  he? 

MICHAEL.  That  will  develop  in  due  course.  For 
the  present,  I  have  no  more  to  say. 

FRANCES.  Well,  I  have  a  great  deal  more  to 
say.  I  want  you  to  go  out  and  start  that  car  and 
drive  me  to  the  Cortrights'  immediately.  (  MICHAEL 
does  not  move)  Do  you  hear  what  I  say? 

MICHAEL.    Yes. 

FRANCES.    Will  you  do  it? 

MICHAEL.    No ! 

FRANCES.  Very  well,  then.  (She  takes  a  step 
toward  the  chair  on  which  her  opera  cloak  is  lying. 
As  she  does  so  MICHAEL  leans  forward  and  picks 
up  the  cloak) 

MICHAEL.    Are  you  going? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  You  wouldn't  dare  keep  me  here 
"by  force. 


48  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

MICHAEL.    Of  course  not.    May  I  ask  where  you 
are  going? 

FRANCES.     To  Mrs.  Cortnght  s. 

MICHAEL.    And  where  is  that? 

FRANCES.     Well,  I—  I  don't  exactly  know.     But 
I'll  find  it      If  you  won't  tell  me,  others  will. 
'   MICHAEL.     I'll  tell  you  this—  it's  a  long  walk. 

FRANCES.     I  don't  intend  to  walk.     I  ve  driven 
Mr.  Andrews'  car  before—  and   I  can  drive 


L  (Putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
drawing  out  two  or  three  nuts  which  he  shows  her) 
1  don't'think  even  /  could  drive  it  without  these. 

FRANCES.    Then  I'll  walk. 

MICHAEL.  I  strongly  advise  you  not  to  I.ne 
roads  hereabouts  are  not  only  lonesome  they  re 
muddv  They  would  be  hard  on  high-heeled  slip 
pers—and  I  shouldn't  like  to  see  your  charming 
frock  all  streaked  with  mud. 

FRANCES.    Will  you  give  me  my  things? 

MICHAEL.     No.  . 

FRANCES.    Won't  you  please  give  them  to  me  t 

MICHAEL.    No.    (Again  he  shakes  his  head. 
sits  down  rather  suddenly,  in  despair,  and  buries- 
her  face  in  her  hands.     MICHAEL  starts  forward  u 
consternation)    You're  not  going  to  cry  ? 

FRANCES.  (Sitting  up  angrily  and  stifling  a  sol}) 
Certainly  not  !  I'm  not  that  sort  of  girl. 

MICHAEL.     (Heartily  and  much  relieved) 
sure  you  weren't. 

FRANCES.     (Trying  very  hard  to  keep  her  voic 
from  trembling)  'Perhaps  you'll  have  the  gooc 
to  explain— 

MICHAEL.     Certainly.    I've  kidnapped  you. 

FRANCES.    Why? 

MICHAEL.    You  asked  me  just  now  who  had  em 
ployed  me.     I  can't  tell  you  his  name.     But  this 
will  tell  you  :  he  is  a  man  who  adores  you. 


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THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  49 

FRANCES.  And  yet  he  sends  his  chauffeur  for 
me  instead  of  coming  himself,  and  is  late  to  his  own 
kidnapping.  I  don't  think  he  sounds  very  promis 
ing. 

MICHAEL.  You  speak  lightly  of  a  man's  devo 
tion. 

FRANCES.  Devotion !  He  has  chosen  an  odd  way 
of  showing  it. 

MICHAEL.  Does  it  really  seem  so  strange  to  you 
that  a  man  should  grasp  at  any  method — even  this 
one — of  meeting  you,  being  with  you — 

FRANCES.  But  surely  he  might  meet  me  without 
kidnapping  me.  There  are  so  many  simpler  ways  of 
obtaining  an  introduction. 

MICHAEL.  And  if  none  of  them  were  open  to 
him?  If  this  were  his  one  opportunity?  Are  you 
going  to  blame  him  for  seizing  it  when  it  means  so 
much  to  him — 

FRANCES.  (Rising)  Who  is  this  man  you  are 
speaking  of?  Not — not— 

MICHAEL.     And   if    I   were  the   man (He 

checks  himself  and  assumes  a  lighter  tone)  But  of 
course  I'm  not !  Merely  his  agent.  I  should  never 
have  presumed  to  kidnap  you  on  my  own  account. 

FRANCES.  I  don't  think  you  will  perish  for  lack 
of  presumption.  Who  are  you?  You  don't  talk 
like  a  chauffeur. 

MICHAEL.  At  least  I  drive  like  one.  You  can't 
expect  everything. 

FRANCES.    And  so  this  man  I  have  never  met 

MICHAEL.  And  perhaps  you  have  met  him.  Per 
haps  you  have  chatted  with  him  often,  lightly,  of 
this  and  that.  But  how  can  you  truly  know  a  man 
whom  you  meet  only  in  the  stilted  whirligig  of  con 
ventional  functions — with  whom  you  merely  dine 
and  dance  and  golf?  Don't  you  understand  that  he 
cannot  display  his  deepest  and  most  sacred  feelings 
at  a  tea — that  he  shrinks  from  baring  his  soul 


5o  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

amidst  the  flighty  chatter  and  tin-pan  music  of  a 
modern  ball-room— and  that  when  he  comes  to  lay 
his  life  at  your  feet,  he  seeks  a  time  and  place  in 
keeping  with  his  mood  ? 

FRANCES.  (In  a  low  tone)  Yes.  I  do  under 
stand. 

MICHAEL.  That  is  why  he  has  had  you  brought 
here— far  from  the  feverish  bustle  of  the  city— here 
where  the  calm  of  perfect  peace  can  sink  into  your 
heart — and  where  the  low  plashing  of  the  waves^may 
play  a  soft  accompaniment  to  his  words.  Where 
he  can  speak  to  you  of  realities,  not  shams — of  life 
and  love,  no  longer  stale  with  sordid  custom,  but 
fresh  and  vigorous  and  bracing — as  they  were  in 
the  morning  of  the  world. 

FRANCES.  Are  there  such  men? 
MICHAEL.  Any  moment  he  may  be  here.  Listen ! 
Listen  carefully.  And  when,  far  off  on  the  road, 
you  hear  the  muffled  throbbing  of  an  engine,  like 
a  fast-beating  heart,  think  that  your  fate  has  come 
whirling  out  of  the  darkness  upon  you,  with  all  the 
terror  and  splendor  of  a  storm  racing  across  the 
lake. 

(ELLEN  enters  through  the  door  in  the  rear  and 
switches  on  the  lights,  illuminating  the  room 
brightly.  FRANCES  is  half  blinded  by  the  sud 
den  light) 

ELLEN.  Miss  Frances!  So  you  got  here  after 
all?  I  thought  I  heard  someone  moving  about. 

FRANCES.  (Looking  about  her)  Why,  it's  Ellen ! 
And  I'm  at  "The  Breakers!"  Why— why— why- 
then  the  man  you  were  speaking  of,  the  man  who 
had  me  kidnapped— Ned ?  (MICHAEL  bows.  She 
sinks  into  the  armchair  down  right  in  great  disap 
pointment)  Oh,  dear!  Ned!  Oh— it  must  have  been 
that  wretched  poem.  The  poor,  blundersome  old 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  51 

darling.  (She  begins  to  laugh,  and  continues,  grow 
ing  almost  hysterical.  MICHAEL  joins  her)  But 
where  is  he? 

ELLEN.    His  grandma  will  explain. 

FRANCES.  His — grandma  ?  ( She  begins  to  laugh 
again) 

ELLEN.  Mrs.  Widdimore,  Miss.  She's  just  in 
side,  and  it  will  be  a  blessed  relief  to  her  to  set  eyes 
on  you.  Your  poor  pa,  too — he's  been  so  worried 
he's  telephoned  twice  for  news  of  you. 

FRANCES.    Father!    How  did  he  know? 

ELLEN.  Oh,  he  was  in  it,  too,  Miss.  Master 
Neddy  would  never  have  taken  such  a  liberty  with 
out  his  consent. 

(ELLEN  goes  out  through  the  door  in  the  rear) 

FRANCES.  But  imagine  him  conspiring  with  Ned 
to  have  me  kidnapped. 

MICHAEL.  You  see,  Miss  Raymond,  you  need 
have  no  fear.  It  is  a  perfectly  proper  and  domestic 
kidnapping,  with  all  the  comforts  of  home. 

FRANCES.  (She  rises,  taking  her  cloak  ivith  her, 
and  speaks  angrily  and  reproachfully)  Was  it 
really  such  fun  to  make  me  believe  that  wonderful 
story  you  told  me?  Oh,  you  did  it  very  well,  and 
if  it's  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  know  that  I  be 
lieved  it — I  did. 

MICHAEL.     Why  are  you  angry? 

FRANCES.  You.  dragged  all  my  foolish,  secret 
fancies  out  of  their  hiding-place,  and  made  fun  of 
them.  You  built  up  before  me  a  lovely,  impossible 
dream — and  laughed  when  it  was  broken.  And  yet 
you  ask  why  I  am  angry.  I  think  that's  dull  of 
you. 

(She  goes  out  door  left.     MICHAEL  smiles,  hums 
"The  Gipsy  Trail,"  walks  towards  door.     MRS. 


52  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

WIDDIMORE  comes  into  the  room.     She  has  re 
moved  her  coat  and  veil) 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  So  you're  Edward's  adven 
turer  ? 

MICHAEL.    (Bowing)    Good  evening,  ma'am. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Let  me  look  at  you.  (  MICH 
AEL  conies  over  to  her j  H'm.  Do  know  that  Ed 
ward's  out  scouring  the  countryside  for  you  ? 

MICHAEL.  (Placing  the  armchair  down  left  for 
her)  Allow  me ! 

MRS.  WTDDIMORE.  (Looking  at  him  curiously  and 
sitting  down)  Thank  you.  Do  you  know  that  we 
had  made  up  our  minds  that  you  had  carried  Miss 
Raymond  off  to  parts  unknown  ? 

MICHAEL.  That  would  he  a  strange  thing  for  a 
chauffeur  to  do. 

MRS.  WTDDIMORE.    You  a  chauffeur?     Nonsense. 

MICHAEL,  Yes — a  chauffeur — hired  by  your 
grandson  for  the  evening.  But  since  I've  placed  the 
young  lady  safely  in  your  hands,  my  work'  is  over. 
I'll  he  going. 

MRS.  WTDDTMORE.  You'll  remain — to  entertain 
an  old  woman  who  hasn't  talked  to  your  Tke  for 
many  a  long  year. 

MICHAEL.  You're  very  kind,  and  no  one  is  more 
susceptible  to  flattery  than  I  am,  but  I  must  leave 
this  place —  (He  glances  apprehensively  toward 
the  door  left  through  which  FRANCES  disappeared) 
The  sooner  the  better. 

MRS.  WTDDIMORE.  You'll  not*  be  so  rude  as  to 
disappoint  a  lady,  Mr.  Jones.  Your  name  is  Jones? 

MICHAEL.    Yes,  ma'am — Davy  Jones. 

MRS.  WTDDTMORE.  Rubbish !  That's  not  your 
name,  and  nothing  like  it — and  you  can  put  that  in 
your  locker,  Mr.  Davy  Jones. 

MICHAEL.  (With  a  suspicion  of  Irish  accent) 
Sure,  ma'am,  you  have  the  discernin'  eye. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  53 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.    I  have.    You're  Irish? 

MICHAEL.  (Lapsing  into  broad  brogue)  I  am 
that !  My  grandfather,  God  rest  his  soul,  came  over 
from  County  Clare  in  the  days  gone  by. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  I  know  he  did.  And  I'll  tell 
you  his  name.  (She  leans  over  and  whispers  in  his 
car.  He  starts  back  in  great  astonishment) 

MICHAEL.  Sure,  'tis  a  witch  y'are!  (He  sits 
down  on  the  long,  loiv  seat) 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  I  was  sure  of  it !  You  come 
like  an  answer  to  a  prayer.  For  while  I  never 
knew  until  now  that  you  existed,  you  are  the  one 
person  in  the  world  I  most  wanted  at  this  particular 
minute. 

MICHAEL.    But  how  in  the  world  did  you  ever 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  I  knew  him.  And  I  recog 
nized  you — let  me  see — one-third  by  your  voice, 
one-third  by  your  smile,  one-third  by  instinct — and 
one-third 

MICHAEL.    WThat !     Four  thirds? 

Mr.".  WIDDIMORE.  Nonsense.  What  do  people 
like  you  and  me  care  for  the  mathematics  ?  We  live 
in  a  sort  of  fourth  dimension,  and  know  that  the 
impossible  is  true. 

MICHAEL.  God  be  good  to  you,  ma'am,  but  sure 
'tis  a  luxurious  feelin'  it  gives  yc  :  to  be  meetin' 
someone  who  speaks  your  own  language.  Tis 
like  seein'  the  Stars  and  Stripes  floatin'  on  a  whaler 
in  Bering  Sea,  after  many  wearyin'  days  of  waste 
ice  and  green  water. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  You  don't  find  many  who 
speak  that  language. 

MICHAEL.  It's  precious  few  of  us  there  are, 
ma'am,  and  we  scattered  here  and  there  over  the 
mighty  surface  of  the  revolvin'  world. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  That's  because  it  is  a  dead 
language — as  dead  as  Greek  or  Sanskrit — the  lan 
guage  of  romance.  Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  not 


54  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

your  own  grandfather,  wandered  back  from  the  long 
ago? 

MICHAEL.  I'm  not  sayin'  I'm  not,  for  there  do 
be  many  things  hid  in  the  heart  of  the  world  that 
are  past  man's  findin'  out.  Mebbe  you're  right, 
an'  I  wish  it  were  so,  for  I'm  thinking  from  the 
glint  in  your  eye,  you  had  a  kindness  for  him — 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  You're  very  like  him.  I  was 
fond  of  him,  and  at  one  time  it  seemed  as  if  he 
and  I— 

M.ICTTAEL.  (After  a  pause)  An'  now  it's  him 
I'm  pityin'  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  for  you 
must  have  been  a  grand  woman  entirely  when  the 
youth  was  in  von,  an'  he  must  have  had  black  hours 
a-plenty — an'  him  losin'  you. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  The  black  hours  were  not  all 
his.  Like  you,  he  went  walking  the  world — and 
oh,  my  friend,  the  world  was  worth  walking,  in 
those  days — not  bleak  and  grey  as  it  is  today. 

MICHAEL.  (Impatiently)  Never  was  an  age  so 
full  of  romance  as  our  own.  For  now  we  can  wan 
der  in  a  year  over  the  whole  wide  world.  The 
earth's  a  playground  so  full  of  bright  ne^T  toys  that 
you  can  play  from  early  morning  until  you  drop 
asleep  from  very  weariness — and  the  shelves  still 
full,  beyond  your  power  to  ransack. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Is  it  never  lonely  in  your  play 
ground? 

MICHAEL.  Yes — sometimes — at  dusk,  or  when 
the  sun  goes  down  crimson  and  the  sky  is  flecked 
with  little  puffy  clouds. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Ah  !  Then  you  haven't  found 
your  playmate  ? 

MICHAEL.  (Harshly)  I'm  not  looking  for  her. 
I  don't  want  her. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     I  don't  believe  you. 

MICHAEL.  There  are  no  girls  nowadays  who 
could  lead  the  l';e  /  love.  Now  you —  (With  a 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  55 

quick  change  to  Irish  blarney)  Ah,  ma'am,  sure  an* 
had  I  but  known  you  when  you  were  young1.  (He 
rises) 

MRS.  WIDDTMORE.  Stop  flattering-  an  old  woman 
when  there's  a  young  one  in  the  house. 

MICHAEL.  An'  I'm  more  in  love  with  you  this 
minute  than  any  woman  ever  I  clapped  eyes  on. 
Sure,  'tis  only  the  deep  an'  fearful  respect  I  have 
for  ye  keeps  me  from  pickin'  you  up  in  my  arms 
this  minute  an'  runnin'  nway  with  you. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  (Her  eyes  twinkling)  Well, 
don't  ask  your  grandmother  to  chaperone  us. 

MICHAEL.  (Laughing)  I  will  not,  then.  (He 
sits  down  again) 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  And  don't  tell  me  you  are  not 
hunting  for  the  girl  who — 

MICHAEL.  I  tell  you  the  girl  7  want  doesn't  exist. 
Time  and  again  I've  thought  I've  found  her — but 
I've  been  mistaken — always' 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  But  still  you  keep  on  search 
ing.  And  that's  what  brought  you  into  poor  Edward's 
tea-and-toast  adventure — because  you  thought 
that  Frances  Raymond— 

MICHAEL.  Mrs.  Widdimore !  I  assure  you  that 
such  an  idea  never  once  occurred  to  me ! 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE,  Go  on  with  your  conventional 
phrases !  You  talk  like  a  cotillion  leader.  Then 
what  did  bring  you  into  it? 

MICHAEL.    Curiosity. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  In  the  spring  a  young  man's 
fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of — curiosity?1 
Rubbish ! 

MICHAEL.  Sure,  now  I  know  'tis  a  witch  y'are, 
an'  if  I  had  holy  water  by  me  I'd  sprinkle  it  on 
you,  the  way  I'd  cee  you  turn  into  a  lovely,  proiK1 
queen,  wid  a  cruel  heart  and  sea-cold  eyes. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Ah,  it  would  take  more  th?n 
holy  water,  my  friend,  to  do  that.  And  so  jC~: 


56  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

think  Frances   Raymond  is  the  girl  to  share  your 
glorious  pilgrimage? 

MICHAEL.  She  conies  nearer  it  than  any  girl  I've 
ever  seen.  (He  rises. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  (Accusingly)  You're  in  love 
with  her. 

MICHAEL.  No,  I'm  not — not  yet.  But  if  I  stay 
here — if  I  see  much  more  of  her — oh,  I  must  get 
away  at  once ! 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  (Taunting  him)  You're 
afraid  to  stay. 

MICHAEL.  I  admit  it.  I'm  afraid  of  her — and 
I'm  beginning  to  be  afraid  of  you. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     Of  me?  Why? 

MICHAEL.  Even  the  best  of  women  are  born 
matchmakers. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Of  course  we  are!  But  the 
match  7  am  bent  on  making  is  between  Frances  and 
my  grandson.  Have  you  forgotten  that  he  wants  to 
marry  her  ? 

MICHAEL.    I  wish  he  would !    Then  /  couldn't. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Then  stay  mid  help  me  bring 
it  about.  Poor  Edward,  he  would  a-wooing  go,  but 
heighho,  says  Rowley — he'll  lose  her  if  we  don't 
help  him. 

MICHAEL.     How  could  I  help? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.    Stay  and  see. 

MICHAEL.  (Weakening )  Of  course  I  should  like 
to — and  I'd  feel  much  safer  with  that  girl  securely 
married  and  out  of  my  reach,  but—  -  (He  looks 
apprehensively  off  towards  the  door  left)  No,  no! 
I  think  I'd  better  go.  (R?  starts  to  the  right) 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  (Softly)  Oh,  but  you're  not 
a  bit  like  your  grandfather. 

MICHAEL.  (Stopping)  All  right,  I'll  stay.  But 
on  one  condition. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     Are  you  going  to  disappoint 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  57 

me?     Am  I  a  huckster,  that  you  should  start  bar 
gaining? 
(The  sound  of  an  approaching  automobile  is  heard. 

MICHAEL.  (  Firmly  )^  On  one  condition.  (With 
a  return  of  his  blarneying  manner)  That  I  may  sit 
next  you  at  table. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  (With  a  smile)  Irish!  Is 
that  a  compliment  to  me — or  are  you  only  trying  to 
escape  temptation? 

MICHAEL.    Sure,  an'  it's  both. 

(NED  hastens  in  through  the  doorway  right) 

NED.  (As  he  sees  MICHAEL  j  Oh,  you're  here, 
are  you?  What  have  you  done  with  Miss  Ray 
mond? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  She's  here,  safe  and  sound, 
making  herself  tidy  in  my  room. 

NED.     Then  everything's  all  right? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.    Absolutely. 

NED.  Thank  heaven  for  that !  I've  been  so 
worried — and  all  the  time  the  kidnapping  was  a 
success  after  all.  What  did  she  say?  Was  she 
thrilled  ? 

MRS.   WIDDIMORE.     Frightfully. 

NED.  That's  good.  Whew!  I'm  dead  to  the 
world.  (He  takes  off  his  duster  and  places  it,  with 
his  hat,  on  the  table  by  the  window  up  right.  Then 
he  comes  down  to  MICHAEL)  Say,  where  did  you 
go? 

MICHAEL.  Well,  pretty  nearly  everywhere,  I 
think. 

NED.  I  should  say  you  did.  Every  policeman  I 
stopped  had  a  story  of  a  car  tearing  through  town 
at  about  sixty  miles  an  hour,  and  they  all  had  my 
number,  too.  That's  how  I  traced  you  back  here. 
What  did  you  do  that  for  ? 

MICHAEL.  Surely  you  did  not  wish  Miss  Ray 
mond  to  know  where  she  was  being  taken? 


5»  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

NED.    Well— no.     I  suppose  not. 

MICHAEL.    Exactly.     So  it  was  necessary  to  con 
fuse  her.     I  did  it.     That's  all. 

NED.  Yes,  but  see  here.  I've  four  summonses 
to  appear  in  court  tomorrow  morning. 

MICHAEL.  I  didn't  think  you  would  wish  me  to 
spare  any  expense  in  carrying  out  your  orders. 

NED.  Well,  I  guess  it's  worth  it.  And  you  did 
a  good  job,  though  you  gave  me  a  fearful  fright. 
(tie  takes  money  from  his  pocket)  Here's  your 
fifty  dollars. 

MICHAEL.  Oh,  no,  thanks,  I  couldn't  (He 
glances  toward  the  door  left)  I've  been  paid  al 
ready—more  than  I  bargained  for— far,  far  more 
than  I  expected. 

NED.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  But  I  prom 
ised  you  the  money,  and  I  insist 

MICHAEL.  Then  present  it,  in  my  name  to  the 
Society  for  the  Relief  of  the  Incurably  Conven 
tional.  (He  starts  for  the  table  up  right  to  get  his 
hat)  Good  night. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Edward,  invite  Mr.  Jones  to 
stay  to  supper  with  us. 

NED.  (In  a  whisper)  Why,  grandma,  he's— 
he's 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  If  I've  got  to  stay  here  I 
must  have  entertainment.  And  it's  been  long  since 
I  ve  seen  anyone  who  has  fascinating  tales  of  adven 
ture  to  tell.  Invite  him  ! 

NED.  Mr.  Jones,  please  do  stay.  We  shall  be 
delighted. 

MICHAEL.  Thank  you.  I  really  "ought  to  be  go 
ing,  but 

(FRANCES   enters  through   the  door  left) 
NED.     (Rushing  towards  FRANCES,  in  the  highest 
spirits)     Hello,  Frances !    Awfully  glad  to  see  you 
Awfully  glad  you  came. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  59 

FRANCES.  (Smiling  and  shaking  her  head  at  him) 
Oh,  Ned!  Ned!  What  will  you  do  next? 

NED.  You  can't  say  I  didn't  see  this  hint,  Frances. 
Just  like  that  fellow  in  the  poem — Lochinvar — or 
whatever  his  name  is.  Now  you're  here,  let's  have 
supper.  I'm  famished.  (FRANCES  begins  to  laugh, 
and  is  joined  by  MRS.  WIDDIMORE  and  MICHAEL) 
I  don't  see  anything  so  darned  funny  about  it. 

FRANCES.  Oh,  don't  you,  Ned?  When  I  think 
of  your  asking-  father's  permission (She  be 
gins  to  laugh  again)  Poor  darling!  Did  he  really 
say  you  might  ? 

NED.  Yes,  he  did.  When  I  promised  to  provide 
chaperones.  Ellen's  out  here  too,  you  know. 

FRANCES.     Oh,  Ned,  you've  been  lavish ! 

NED.  (Disappointed)  You  don't  care  for  it,  do 
you? 

FRANCES.  I  think  it  was  very  sweet  of  you  to 
kidnap  me,  Ned.  But  if  we  expect  to  throw  rice  at 
the  bride  and  groom,  we  ought  to  leave  at  once  for 
Mrs.  Cortright's. 

NED.  (In  a  discouraged  tone)  The  thing's  a  fail 
ure — oh,  yes  it  is.  I  suppose  we  might  as  well  call  it 
off. 

MICHAEL.  Surely  you're  not  going  to  surrender 
at  the  first  repulse.  That's  not  the  way  to  win  a 
girl.  If  you  let  her  go  now,  you'll  lose  her  forever. 

FRANCES.  Ned,  surely  you're  not  going  to  let 
that  man  interfere  in  our  affairs  with  his  ridiculous 
suggestions. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  I  think  he's  said  the  only  sen 
sible  words  I've  heard  tonight. 

NED.  Do  you  really,  grandma?  (To  MICHAEL) 
What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do? 

MICHAEL.  See  the  game  through  to  a  finish. 
Show  her  that  you  are  the  stronger — if  you  are. 

FRANCES.    Ned,  are  you  going  to  disobey  me  ? 


60  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

MICHAEL.  You've  never  disobeyed  her  in  your 
life,  have  you  ? 

NED.     No — I  don't  think  I  have. 
MICHAEL.     Well,  you  see  the  result.     Try  firm 
ness. 

NED.  (A  smile  slowly  coming  over  his  face)  By 
Jove,  I  have  a  good  mind  to.  (He  turns  to  FRANCES 
with  an  assumption  of  authority)  Frances,  you 
can't  go. 

FRANCES.  Do  you  really  mean,  Ned,  that  you  are 
going  to  refuse  to  take  me? 

NED.     (Obviously  frightened  at  his  daring)     I 

I — yes. 

FRANCES.  Ned,  it's  impossible  to  be  really  angry 
with  you — but  this  makes  me  wish  I  could. 

NED.     (Protesting)     Oh,  Frances ! 

MICHAEL.  Don't  be  so  down  !  She  doesn't  mean 
it. 

NED.  Oh,  I  hope  not.  I'm  sure  you'll  feel  dif 
ferently  when  you've  had  some  supper,  Frances. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Then  you'd  better  tell  El 
len 

NED.  All  right.  I  will.  Just  a  lamb  cutlet,  and 
a  little  salad,  or  something — I'm  rather  peevish  my 
self  when  I'm  hungry. 

(He  goes  out  through  the  door  in  the  rear. 

MRS.  WTDDIMORE.  My  dear,  let  me  present  the 
most  charming  man  I've  met  in — forty  years.  Mr. 
Davy  Jones.  I  think  I  can  depend  upon  him  to 
keep  you  amused. 

MICHAEL.    I  really  ought  to  go. 

MRS.  WTDDIMORE.  But  you  won't.  (She  goes 
out  the  door  left) 

MICHAEL.  (After  a  moment's  pause)  Miss  Ray 
mond — 

FRANCES.     (Without  looking  around)     Yes? 

MICHAEL.  I  know  you're  angry  with  me.  And 
I  don't  blame  you  if  you  believe — but  on  my  honor 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  61 

I  never,  for  a  single  instant,  had  the  slightest  inten 
tion  of  making  fun  of  you — or  of  what  you  call  your 
fancies. 

FRANCES.  But  that  romantic  story  you  told  me — 
it  wasn't  true,  you  know. 

MICHAEL.  It  was  true — every  word  of  it.  It  may 
have  been  a  Iitt1e  confused,  for  half  the  time  I  was 
speaking  of  Andrews 

FRANCES.    It  didn't  sound  a  bit  like  Ned. 

MICHAEL.  — and  half  the  time  of  myself.  I  did 
seize  this  method — the  only  one  open  to  me — of 
getting  to  know  you — of  speaking  with  you— 

FRANCES.  And  why  did  you  make  Ned  keep  me 
here? 

MICHAEL.    Because  I  didn't  want  you  to  go. 

FRANCES.  Please  don't  be  polite  to  me.  I'm  so 
tired  of  polite  men. 

MICHAEL.  You  shouldn't  have  sung  "The  Gipsy 
Trail." 

FRANCES.    "The  Gipsy  Trail?" 

MICHAEL.  Yes, — the  trail  I've  followed  for  eight 
happy  years — years  so  short  that  they've  slipped 
by  me  like  a  summer's  afternoon — years  packed  to 
the  full  with  joy  and  freedom  and  adventure.  And 
when  you  sang,  I  heard  it  all  in  your  voice — your 
longing  and  homesickness  for  that  same  trail— 

FRANCES.    You  guessed  all  that? 

MICHAEL.  I  knew  then  that  you  were  thirsting 
for  the  clear  stars  over  your  head — the  fresh  wind 
blowing  keen  into  your  face — the  smell  of  earth  in 
the  squashy  spring-time,  when  you  splash  ankle- 
deep  through  wet  fields — all  those  old,  pagan  joys 
that  dwellers  in  the  city  have  forgotten. 

FRANCES.    No  one  ever  guessed  before. 

MICHAEL.  You  see  we  two  belong  to  that  small, 
happy  company  who  love  life  and  the  open  better 
than  the  stuffiness  of  modern  convention.  And  so 
I  couldn't  pass  you  by  as  if  we  were  strangers,  with- 


6j  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

out  a  word — without  at  least  calling  out  to  yotr: 
"Hail,  brother !" — before  the  road  divides  and  we 
lose  each  other  on  our  separate  ways. 

FRANCES.  And  have  you  really  wandered  all  over 
the  world — perfectly  free — whenever  and  wherever 
your  fancy  called  you? 

MICHAEL. 

'"Pay  couldn't  'old  me  when  my  time  was  done, 
For  something-  in  my  'eacl  upset  me  all, 
Till  I  'ad  dropped  whatever  'twas  for  good " 

FRANCES.     (Capping  the  quotation  eagerly) 
"An',  out  at  sea,  be'eld  the  dock  lights  die, 
An'  met  my  mate — the  wind  that  tramps  the  world.'* 

(A  little  pause. 

Oh,  tell  me  what  it's  really  like  to  be  a  wanderer! 
(She  sits  in  the  armchair  down  left) 

MICHAEL.  Farly  some  morning,  with  the  damp 
mist  clinging  to  your  clothes,  you  slip  out  of  har 
bor  in  a  trim  little  trading  schooner,  to  plow  your 
path  southwestward  toward  the  islands  of  the  sun 
set.  Then  follows  day  after  day  of  heavenly  mo 
notony,  broken  now  and  then  by  sudden,  violent 
squalls.  And  it  seems  as  if  you'd  been  born  on  the 
deck  of  that  schooner,  and  would  die  there  in  a  thou 
sand  years  or  so — and  you  don't  care — you  don't 
care  for  anything,  so  long  as  you  can  lie  there,  and 
breathe  the  soft,  warm  air,  and  watch  the  mongrel 
crew,  and  the  Chinese  cook,  with  his  yellow  face 
pasted  on  the  pale  blue  background  of  the  sky.  And 
the  languor  of  the  tropics  sweeps  over  you  like  a 
great  wave 

FRANCES.     I've  always  wanted  to  go  there ! 

MICHAEL.  At  night,  you  gaze  upward,  and  watch 
the  march  of  strange  constellations  across  the  alien 
sky.  Until  at  dawn  there  comes  up  out  of  the  sea  a 
fairy  ring  of  waving  palm-trees,  where  child-like 
natives  greet  you  with  unfamiliar  fruits,  and  civili 
zation  falls  from  you  like  a  useless  garment. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  63 

FRANCES.     I  could  spend  my  life  there! 

MICHAEL.  Ah,  but  unless  you  break  the  flowery 
chain  that  binds  you,  you  will  float  the  rest  of  your 
life  a\vay  in  listless  ecstacy.  And  so,  one  day,  you 
strike  north ! — -half  a  world  away,  where  energy 
creeps  back  to  you,  and  the  muscles  ache  for  action 
— where  great,  bare  mountains  of  jagged  rock  tower 
upward,  until  they  seem  to  pierce  the  sky.  And  long 
ere  daylight,  while  the  world  still  lies  asleep  under 
its  coverlid  of  snow,  we  venture  out,  shivering,  and 
begin  the  long  ascent.  And  as  we  wind  upward, 
still  in  darkness,  morning  strikes  the  mighty  crags 
above  us,  and  they  flash  and  glitter  in  the  sunlight 
like  the  fabled  castle  of  Valhalla,  where  the  old 
Norse  gods  sit  feasting.  Then  we  rope  ourselves 
together  for  the  climbing — just  we  two  in  the  huge, 
empty  world — bound  together  irrevocably — trusting- 
ourselves  utterly  to  each  other's  courage. 

FRANCES.  I  don't  think  I  should  be  afraid — with 
you. 

MICHAEL.  (Coming  close  to  her)  Or  we're  gal 
loping,  side  by  side,  through  rugged,  broken  country, 
with  night  coming  on  fast  behind  us.  I  can  hear  the 
thud  of  your  horse's  hoofs  by  mine,  can  see  your 
face  fade  into  darkness  beneath  your  broad-brimmed 
hat,  and  our  shadows  scampering  ahead  of  us  in  a 
mad,  fantastic  dance.  Then  we  pitch  our  camp  on 
the  edge  of  a  little  wood,  and  heap  the  crackling 
branches  high  upon  the  fire  against  the  cold.  And 
we  sit  there,  listening  to  the  strange  noises  of  the 
night,  until  there  is  left  only  a  heap  of  glowing  coals 
— and  your  face  above  them.  Oh,  so  many,  many 
nights  I've  sat  like  this  alone — and  missed  the  face 
that  should  have  been  beside  me,  the  face  of  the 
comrade  I've  always  wanted  and  never  known — 
your  face — For  it's  you  I've  been  wanting  all  these 
years.  It  is  your  voice  I  have  heard  calling  to  me 
in  the  winds.  All  my  life  has  been  one  long  pil- 


64  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

grimage  in  search  of  you — and  suddenly  tonight- 
one  moment  of  twilight— a  girl  in  a  doorway— and 
I  knew  that  it  was  ended— that  I  had  found  you  at 
last_ni  never  let  you  go— you  are  mine.  (MICH 
AEL'S  K>ords  die  aw>ay.  He  looks  at  FRANCES,  she 
at  him.  There  is  a  'long  moment  of  silence.  Her 
eyes  slowly  drop)  Comrade!  (She  rises,  looks  at 
him,  drops  her  eyes  and  sways  slightly  toward  him. 
He  takes  her  in  his  arms) 

FRANCES.  (After  a  moment)  I  don't  even  know 
your  name. 

MICHAEL.     It  doesn't  matter. 
FRANCES.     No. 

MICHAEL.  Nothing  matters— hut  that  we  have 
found  each  other!  (He  releases  her  and  she  sits 
down  ) 

FRANCES.  I  always  knew  there  was  you  some 
where.  And  to  think  that  this  very  evening— when 
they  were  all  badgering  me  to  marry  Ned— coming 
closer  and  closer  to  me— and  I  never  suspected— was 
the  man  I  am  really  going  to  marry. 

MICHAEL.     (Brought  back  to  earth  by  the  shock 
of  the  word  "marry")    You're  going  to— marry  me  ? 
FRANCES.     Of  course  I'll  marry  you,  dear.     But 
do  you  know,  you  have  forgotten  to  ask  me  when? 
MICHAEL.     Have  I? 

FRANCES.  (With  tender  playfulness)  You  nave. 
•  And  I  shan't  tell  you  until  you  do. 

MICHAEL.    (After  a  pause,  bravely)     When.' 
FRANCES.     (Softly)     As  soon  as  you  want— you 
do  love  me,  don't  you? 

MICHAEL.  (Carried  away )  Love  you.'  *es! i 
never  dared  let  myself  believe  there  was  a  girl  in 
the  world  who  saw  life  as  I  did— who  could  sympa 
thize  with  me  in  all  I  cared  for.  If  I  had,  I  should 
have  gone  mad  for  very  loneliness  before 

her. 

FRANCES.     I  did  so  want  to  be  found. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  65 

MICHAEL.  But  noiv — Frances,  will  you  marry  me 
tonight  ? 

FR  A  N  c  E  s .    To }  i  igh  t  ? 

MICHAEL.  Yes.  I  can  get  a  special  license — 
kr.ow  tue  clerk.  And  there's  an  old  Catholic  priest 
— charming-  old  soul — he'll  marry  us 

FRANCES.    You're  not  a  Catholic? 

MICHAEL.  I'm  not  anything.  But  a  priest — well, 
don't  you  rather  like  the  idea? 

FRANCES.  I'm  a  Baptist,  and  of  course  I  must 
he  married  by  our  own  minister. 

MICHAEL.  (Somewhat  dashed)  Oh — all  right. 
I  did  like  the  idea  of  a  priest,  somehow,  but — a  Bap 
tist  by  all  means.  Well,  come  on.  We'll  find  him. 

FRANCES.    But  I  can't  marry  you  tonight. 

MICHAEL.    Why  not  ? 

FRANCES.  A  runaway  marriage?  To  rush  off 
right  away — and  after  all,  I've  just  met  you,  really 
— what  would  all  my  friends  think  ? 

MICHAEL.    What  do  you  care  what  they  think? 

FRANCES.  Well,  I  do.  And  there's  my  family  to 
be  considered. 

MICHAEL.  Your  family?  Yes,  that's  so;  I  sup 
pose  there  is. 

FRANCES.  Of  course  there  is.  You'll  have  to  see 
Father — but  he's  an  old  darling!  He's  bought  a 
lot  for  me  right  across  the  road  from  where  we  live 
— and  he's  always  promised  to  build  on  it  for  me 
when  I'm  married. 

MICHAEL.    A  house?    What'll  we  do  with  it? 

FRANCES.  (Laughing)  Why,  live  in  it,  of  course. 
You  mustn't  mind  Father — he'll  probably  bluster 
and  storm  at  first,  because  you  see  he  doesn't  know 
you  yet,  and  say  we  can't  be  married  for  ever  so 
long 

MICHAEL.    Will  he  say  that? 

FRANCES.  (Rising)  Yes,  but  he  won't  mean  it. 
(MRS.  WIDDIMORE  enters  through  the  door  left) 


66  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

Oh,  Mrs.  Widdimore,  I'm  so  awfully,  awfully 
happy  ! 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.    My  dear  child,  what  is  it? 

FRANCES.  (To  MICHAEL)  Shall  we  tell  her? 

Oh,  yes,  let's!  Mrs.  Widdimore (Suddenly 

stricken  shy,  she  turns  to  MICHAEL)  You  tell  her. 

MRS.  WTIDDIMORE.  It  isn't  necessary.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  pleased  I  am,  and  L  think — I  know 
you're  going  to  be  absurdly*  happy. 

FRANCES.  (Goes  to  her  and  kisses  her)  Thank 
you.  (She  turns  to  MICHAEL)  I'm  going  in  to  put 
my  things  on.  I  want  you  to  take  me  right  home 
and  we'll  tell  Father.  I  won't  be  long.  ( MICHAEL 
takes  both  her  hands,  and  looks  gravely  into  her 
face)  What's  the  matter,  dear?  (With  a  sudden 
impulse,  he  lifts  both  her  hands  to  his  lips  and  kisses 
them.  She  smiles  radiantly  at  him,  and  leaning  to 
wards  him  whispers)  Goodbye — for  a  minute. 
(And  then  turns  and  goes  out  through  door  left. 
MICHAEL  stands  looking  after  her  gravely,  shaking 
his  head  slightly.  Then  suddenly  he  turns  to  MRS. 
WIDDIMORE  almost  with  a  groan) 

MICHAEL.    Good  Lord  !    What  have  I  done  ? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  You've  got  yourself  engaged 
— and  very  quickly,  too.  How  did  it  happen? 

MICHAEL.  I  don't  know.  How  do  those  things 
happen  ?  I  had  no  more  idea  of  marriage — I  was 
dreaming,  that  was  all — dreaming  aloud,  of  an 
ideal  girl-comrade  who — and  then  I  woke  up.  Wroke 
up  and  found  myself  engaged  to  be  married.  W7hy, 
I'm  as  surprised  as  you  are!  (MRS.  WIDDIMORE 
turns  aside  to  hide  a  sl\  and  triumphant  smile,  but 
MICHAEL  sees  it  and  starts)  You're  not  surprised! 
You  knew  it  was  coming  all  along.  Didn't  you  ? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  I  had  my  suspicions.  (She 
sits  down  at  the  left  end  of  the  long,  low  seat) 

MICHAEL.     I  see  it  now :  you  kept  me  here  on 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  67 

purpose.     And  I,  like  a  blind  idiot,  thought  that — 
Yes,  you  planned  it !    But  why  ?    Why  ? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Frances  and  Edward  would 
have  been  wretched  together. 

MICHAEL.  She'd  be  a  thousand  times  happier 
with  him  than  with  a  vagabond  like  me.  (He  sits 
down  on  the  right  end  of  the  long,  low  seat) 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Nonsense!  You'll  be  ideally 
happy ;  because  you  are  different.  There  are  two 
kinds  of  people  in  the  world,  my  friend.  I  always 
call  them  after  the  poem  in  "Alice  in  Wonderland" 
— "The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter."  The  Walruses 
are  you  and  I,  and  the  Carpenters  are  the  plain, 
practical,  conventional  people.  Frances  is  one. 
Edward  is  another.  That's  why  they  must  not 
marry.  But  you — do  you  remember  how  the  poem 
goes?  "The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter  were  walk 
ing  hand  in  hand." 

MICHAEL.    But  it  doesn't. 

MRS.  \YIDDIMORE.  Oh,  well,  of  course  it  doesn't. 
But  it  ought  to.  The  only  happy  marriages  are 
where  a  Walrus  and  a  Carpenter  walk  hand  in  hand. 
Your  grandfather  and  I  were  Walruses — and  we 
both  married  Carpenters.  That  is  the  Law. 

MICHAEL.  I  am  an  anarchist.  I  hate  laws.  And 
besides,  this  law  of  yours  is  not  true.  Think  what 
a  sheltered  life  she's  always  led.  Think  for  a  mo 
ment  what  my  life  is  like — and  then  imagine  her 
sharing  it. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     You  could  give  it  up. 

MICHAEL.  Give  up  my  life? — Do  you  suppose  I 
could?  (MRS.  WIDDIMORE  nods)  Can  you  imagine 
me  settled  down?  (MRS.  WIDDIMORE  nods)  Tak 
ing  her  to  church  every  Sunday  morning?  In  a 
frock  coat?  (MRS.  WIDDIMORE  nods)  Spending 
my  evenings  quietly  at  home — playing  checkers — lis 
tening  to  the  Victrola — reading  the  Atlantic 
Monthly?  (MRS.  WIDDIMORE  nods)  Going  down 


THR  GIPSY  TRAIL 

to  business  every  single  morning  of  my  life  at  half- 
past  nine  ? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Only  here  they  go  down  at 
half-past  eight. 

MICHAEL.     I  wonder  if  I  could! 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Love  can  do  wonderful 
things. 

MICHAEL.  (Rising)  Can  it  make  a  man  over? 
And  if  I  tried — and  failed?  You  don't  know  what 
it's  like  when  the  longing  seizes  you — the  bitter 
homesickness  for  some  place — any  place  but  the 
place  you're  in.  It's  in  my  blood — you  said  it  your 
self :  I'm  like  my  grandfather. 

MRS.  WIDDTMORE.  My  friend,  you  are  only  mak 
ing  excuses  ;  for  in  spite  of  your  boldness  and  ad 
ventures  you  are  afraid  to  marry. 

MICHAEL.     I  wonder  if  I  am? 

MRS.  WIDDTMORE.    You  don't  love  her. 

MICHAEL.  (With  deep  sincerity)  Yes,  I  do  love 
her.  There  will  never  be  anyone  else  for  me — I've 
been  dreaming  of  h~r  for  years — and  now  I  know 
that  dreaming  isn't  enough.  I  want  her — her  hands 
to  hold,  her  lips  to  ki^s — 

FRANCES.  '(Off  left)  I'll  be  right  in.  Are  you 
ready  ? 

MICHAEL.     (After  a  pause]     Yes. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  (After  a  moment)  Are  you 
going  to  start  the  machine? 

MICHAEL.    I  guess  I'd  better. 

(He  goes  to  the  table  up  right,  picks  up  his  hat  and 
duster  and  goes  out  the  doorway  right.  After 
a  moment  NED  enters  through  the  door  in  the 
rear) 

NED.     Where's  Frances? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  (Nodding  toward  room  to  the 
left)  In  there. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  69 

NED.     Supper's  almost  ready. 

(FRANCES   enters  through   the  door  left,  with  her 
opera  cloak  on) 

FRANCES.     Where  is  he? 

NED.     Here  I  am. 

FRANCES.     I  don't  mean  you,  Ned. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.    He's  getting-  the  car  ready. 

NED.    Why,  Frances,  where  are  you  going? 

FRANCES.     Home. 

NED.  With  Jones?  Why.  if  you're  really  so  set 
on  going,  I'll  take  you. 

FRANCES.  Ned,  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you: 
we're  engaged  to  each  other. 

NED.  (Astonished)  You  and  Jones?  (She 
nods)  Why,  Frances,  you  can't  be.  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing.  You  hardly  know  him — and  I've 
been  in  love  with  you  for  years 

FRANCES.  He's  waiting  for  me.  (She  starts  for 
the  door  right,  then  turns  back)  I'm  awfully  sorry, 
Ned. 

NED.  It  seems  awfully  unfair,  somehow,  that  he 
should  do  in  two  hours  what  I've  been  trying  to 
do  for  years.  And  it  isn't  because  I  haven't  tried, 
either.  Do  you  think  that  I  ought  to  congratulate 
him,  Frances  ? 

FRANCES.    Well,  I  hope  you  can,  Ned. 

NED.  All  right,  then.  If  you  say  so,  I  will. 
(The  sound  of  an  automobile  engine  starting  is  heard 
outside.  NED  goes  to  the  window  up  right  and  looks 
out)  Why,  he's  going  ! 

FRANCES.  (Laughing)  Of  course  he's  not  going ! 
He's  coming  right  back.  (She  joins  NED  at  the 
window) 

NED.  No,  he's  not.  He's  turned  the  corner! 
Confound  him!  He's  got  my  car,  too.  (The  sound 
of  the  engine  gradually  dies  away) 


70  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

FRANCES.  He  isn't  coming  back !  He's  gone 
away  for  good !  But  I  don't  understand — what 
does  it  mean? 

NED.  It  means  he's  no  good — Take  one  of  these 
chaps  who  can  talk  as  well  as  he  can,  and  ninety- 
nine  times  out  of  a  hundred,  they're  no  good. 

FRANCES.  (Heartbroken,  to  MRS.  WIDDIMORE) 
But — he  cared  for  me — I  know  he  cared  for  me! 

NED.  (Angrily)  Cares  for  himself,  he  does — and 
no  one  else. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  My  dear,  he  did  care  for  you 
— as  far  as  people  like  him  can  care.  For  he's  not 
like  Edward— 

NED.     No,  thank  God  ! 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  But  he  saw  what  marriage 
would  mean  to  a  man  like  him — how  it  would  tie 
him  down — and  ran  away  from  it — as  his  grand 
father  did  before  him. 

FRANCES.  Did  his  grandfather  run  away  from 
the  girl  he  loved  ? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     He  ran  away  from  me. 

NED.     (Shocked)     Grandma! 

FRANCES.    And  did  he  never  come  back? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Yes — he  came  back — as  this 
boy  will  come  back  to  you.  But  by  that  time  I  had 
married  Edward's  grandfather. 

NED.  Why  don't  you  do  the  same  thing?  Marry 
me — I  won't  run  away. 

FRANCES.  (Half  crying,  she  turns  away  from 
him)  Oh,  Ned,  don't  ask  me — not  just  now.  I 
can't  think  of  anything  now — except  that  I  hate 
him !  He  never  cared  for  me — and  I — I  didn't 
really  care  for  him.  I  was  just  swept  off  my  feet. 

NED.  I  wonder  how  he  did  it?  You  wouldn't 
think  that  just  a  few  stories  of  adventure  would 
make  such  a  difference  to  a  girl.  (He  looks  at 
FRANCES,  very  much  puzzled.  Suddenly  ^  an  idea 
strikes  him  and  his  face  lights  up  with  satisfaction. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  71 

He  clears  his  throat  slightly  and  bravely  begins  his 
recital)*  It  was  in  the  August  of  nineteen  twelve 
that  I  was  fishing  up  in  Canada,  on  Spider  Lake, 
near  Muskoka — no,  it  wasn't  Muskoka,  either,  it 
was  Georgian  Bay.  I  had  forgotten  to  provide  my 
self  with  one  of  those  fishing  licenses — you  know? 
—pure  carelessness.  Of  course  I  wasn't  trying  to 
cheat  the  government — and  they're  only  two  dollars 
anyhow.  And  just  as  I  hooked  a  fish,  I  looked  up, 
and  there  was  the  government  inspector  watching 
me.  Well,  of  course  I  lost  the  fish — it  was  very 
awkward  for  me — not  having  a  license.  And  there 
was  the  Inspector  looking  at  me  very  fiercely — and  I 
suppose  he  had  a  gun  about  him  somewhere.  So  he 
said  to  me :  "Have  you  a  license  ?"  And  of  course 
I  had  to  confess  I  didn't — and  he  said  I'd  better 
buy  one  of  him.  And  so  I  did — it  was  the  only  thing 
to  do — and  then  I'd  really  intended  to  get  one  all 
the  time.  But  he  overcharged  me,  having  me,  so  to 
speak,  in  a  hole 

(But  lonq  ere  this  point  is  reached,  the  curtain  has 
mercifully  hidden  NED'S  unfortunate  effort) 

*  See  "Notes  on  Production,"  on  Page  94. 


ACT  III 

SCENE:  The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  Act  I — the 
veranda  of  MR.  RAYMOND'S  summer  home  at 
Kirtland.  It  is  a  moonlit  evening  about  a  month 
later  than  Act  II. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  MR.  RAYMOND  and 
NED,  both  wearing  dinner-coats,  are  seated  to 
gether  in  the  settee  to  the  right,  MR.  RAYMOND 
to  the  right  of  NED.  Miss  RAYMOND  and  MRS. 
WIDDIMORE  are  seated  together  in  the  settee  to 
the  left,  Miss  RAYMOND  to  the  right  of  MRS. 
WTDDIMORE.  FRANCES,  in  an  evening  frock, 
stands  leaning  against  the  right  pillar,  on  the 
upstage  side,  looking  off  through  the  right  lat 
tice,  paying  no  attention  whatever  to  the  con 
versation. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  The  reduction  in  operating-  ex 
penses — well,  between  you  and  me,  the  accountants 
figure  it  will  be  not  much  under  twenty-five  per 
cent.  We  shall  be  able  to  scale  down  our  combined 
office  force  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of 
sixty  thousand  dollars— 

NED.  By  Jove.  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it!  I 
suppose  eventually  you'll  tnke  in  the  Foster  plant? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Yes,  they've  been  on  the  down 
grade  for  several  years,  and  wh:n  the  time's  ripe, 
they'll  be  glad  enough  to  come  in.  And  then  there 
are  the  Willetts  people.  .  .  . 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Aren't  you  men  ever  going  to 
stop  talking  business  ? 

NED.  Oh,  Miss  Raymond,  I  am  sorry.  But 
72 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  73 

really,  what  Mr.  Raymond  was  just  telling  me  was 
so  extraordinarily  interesting — and  then  I  thought 
that  you  and  grandma  were  probably  discussing 
gowns  or  music  or  literature  or — something  like 
that. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  were. 
You  see  what  happens  when  you  men  leave  us  to 
our  own  base  devices. 

NED.  (To  MR.  RAYMOND,)  I'm  afraid  we've 
been  remiss.  (Turning  to  Miss  RAYMOND)  Tell 
me,  Miss  Raymond,  did  you  get  in  town  to  the  ten 
nis  tournament  this  week  ? 

Miss  RAYMOND.  No,  I  didn't.  Frank  has  never 
cared  for  tennis,  and  as  I  didn't  want  to  go  alone — 

NED.  Oh,  why  didn't  I  think  to  ask  you  ?  That 
was  thoughtless  of  me.  You  and  I  and  Frances 
might  have  gone  together.  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll 
do — we'll  go  on  Monday.  I'll  call  for  you 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  I  wouldn't — they  played  the 
finals  this  afternoon. 

NED.  '  Did  they?  What  a  shame !  Well,  I'll  tell 
you :  we'll  go  next  year.  Remember  now — that's 
an  engagement. 

Miss  RAYMOND.  Thank  you.  And  now —  (She 
rises)  Ned,  won't  you  sing  for  us?  Frances  has 
some  new  songs,  and  there  is  one  that  I'm  sure 
would  suit  your  voice  splendidly. 

NED.  (Rising  also)  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I 
am  in  very  good  voice  tonight —  (He  clears  his 
throat)  But,  of  course,  I  shall  be  delighted  to  try 
if  you  really  want  me  to. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  Yes,  Ned,  sing.  (She  and 
MR.  RAYMOND  rise) 

Miss  RAYMOND.  (At  the  center  door)  Do  you 
know  d'Hardelot's  "I  Hid  My  Love?" 

*NED.     No — No,  I  don't  think  so.     That  isn't  in 

*  See  "Notes  en  Production,"  on  Page  94. 


74  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

my  repertoire.     But  I  will  sing  'The  Bandolero"  for 


''OU. 


(He  opens  the  screen  doors  center  for  her,  and 
follows  her  in.  Both  go  out  from  the  hall  to 
the  right) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (At  center  door)  Aren't  you 
coming,  Mrs.  Widdimore  ? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  In  a  moment,  Frank.  (MR. 
RAYMOND  goes  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the  right. 
MRS.  WIDDIMORE  looks  at  FRANCES  a  moment,  then 
goes  up  to  her)  My  dear,  what's  the  matter? 

FRANCES.  Nothing.  Nothing,  except — it  hasn't 
any  right  to  be  such  a  glorious  evening. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  I  know  you're  unhappy — and 
I  know  why.  I  wish  you  understood  him  as  well 
as  I  do. 

FRANCES.    Him  ?    Who  ? 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.     Our  truant  adventurer. 

FRANCES.  Your  truant  adventurer,  if  you  like — 
but  oh,  not  mine.  I  understand  all  I  want  to  about 
him — and  more. 

MRS.  WIDDIMORE.  You  see,  I  know  his  kind  so 
well.  He's  never  grown  up,  that's  all.  He's  just 
a  little  boy,  like  your  brother  Johnnie — playing 
around  the  world.  You  wouldn't  expect  Johnnie 
to  think  of  serious  things  yet.  But  some  day  he'll 
tire  of  play — he'll  grow  up — and  then 

FRANCES.  I  don't  care  what  he  does.  I'd — rather 
you  wouldn't  talk  about  him,  please. 

MRS.  WTDDIMORE.  All  right,  my  dear.  I'll  stop. 
But  that  won't  stop  you  thinking  about  him. 

(She  goes  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the  right.  FRANCES 
remains.  Presently  JOHN  enters  left  along  the 
path.  He  has  an  air  rifle,  and  backs  on,  shoot 
ing  off  left  with  it) 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  75 

FRANCES.    What  are  you  doing? 

JOHN.  Firing  at  the  enemy.  Their  trenches  are 
right  over  there  the  other  side  of  the  flower  beds. 
(He  points  off  left  and  shoots  again)  I  just  led 
a  charge  against  them.  (He  mops  his  forehead 
with  his  sleeve)  It's  hot  work.  I  hope  they  give 
me  a  war  cross.  What  do  you  have  to  do  to  win  it? 

FRANCES.  I  don't  know  exactly.  But  they  are 
given  only  to  the  very  bravest  men — those  who  are 
absolutely  fearless. 

JOHN.    Did  you  ever  see  one? 

FRANCES.  No — but  I  knew  a  man  once  who  had 
one. 

JOHN.     Gee!    He  must  have  been  a  bear! 

FRANCES.     (In  a  low  tone)     He  was. 

JOHN.  When  I  get  bigger  I'm  going  to  join  the 
aeroplane  service.  And  I  bet  you  I  win  a  cross. 
What  will  you  bet,  Frances?  I'll  bet  you  a  dime  I 
do.  Will  you  bet?  (FRANCES  nods  with  a  smile) 
All  right.  You'll  lose  your  bet.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
anything. 

(NED  comes  into  the  hall  from  the  right  and  out 
upon  the  veranda) 

NED.     Frances — 

FRANCES.    What  is  it,  Ned? 

NED.  Aren't  you  going  to  play  my  accompani 
ment  ? 

FRANCES.  I  thought  Aunt  Janet  would  play  it 
for  you. 

NED.  (He  looks  at  FRANCES,  who  is  not  looking 
at  him,  for  a  time  in  silence)  Perhaps  I'd  better 
not  sing  "The  Bandolero." 

FRANCES.     (Rousing  herself)    Oh,  do  ! 

NED.  (Taking  her  arm  and  leading  her  to  the 
center  door)  You  know,  there's  no  one  in  the  world 
who  can  accompany  me  quite  as  well  as  you  can. 

FRANCES.    Come  on. 


76  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

(She  goes  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the  right,  NED 
following  her  off.  JOHN,  left  alone,  starts  off 
left  in  the  stealthy  manner  of  a  skirmisher  and 
disappears  from  view.  Then  the  piano  is  heard 
in  right  and  NED  begins  to  sing) 

NED.     (In  right) 
"I  am  the  Bandolero, 
The  gallant  Bandolero ! 
I  rule  the  mountains,  and  I  claim 
As  contraband  what  comes  this  way. 
I  am  the  Bandolero, 
Kino-,  with  the  sward  for  pillow ! 
I  am  an  outlaw,  but  have  a  kingdom  beneath  my 
sway." 

*(MlCHAEL  rides  on  alonq  the  pathway,  from  left 
to  right,  on  a  tandem  bicyele,  and  off  right.  He 
wears  a  heavy,  loose  coat  and  a  cap) 

"An  outlaw  with  kingdom  beneath  my  sway! 
T  make  my  castle  of  my  tent, 
My  court  I  hold  in  lonely  spot," 

(MICHAEL  comes  along  the  path  from  the  right  and 
up  upon  the  veranda.  He  is  very  stealthy  in 
his  movements  and  evidently  desires  not  to  be 
seen.  He  tiptoes  to  the  open  doorway  center 
and  peeps  in.  At  the  same  time  JOHN  comes 
tiptoeing  in  from  the  left  along  the  'path,  catches 
sight  of  him,  sneaks  up  behind  him,  and,  shoul 
dering  his  ^air-rifle  and  pointing  it  at  MICHAEL, 
holds  him  up.  In  the  meantime }  NED  sings  on) 

"My  army  is  my  gallant  band, 
My  law  enforced  by  carbine  shot ! 
I  am  the  Bandolero  ! 

*  See  "Notes  on  Production,"  on  Page  94, 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  77 

I  am  the  Bnndcrero  ! 

I  am  waiting  and  watching 

For  ransom  or  outpost, 

A  welcome  for  captive  ! 

A  carbine  for  spy! 

Roaming  the  mountains " 

JOHN.  Halt !  Or  I  fire  !  (MICHAEL  starts,  turns' 
round,  sees  JOHN,  and  with  a  grin  raises  both  hands) 
Come  over  here !  (During  the  following  scene  NED 
sinqs  "The  Bandolero"  to  the  bitter  end) 

MICHAEL.     Hello.     I  guess  I'm  your  prisoner. 

JOHN.  (Going  up  to  him)  You  bet  you  are. 
Are  you  a  burglar  ? 

MICHAEL.  (Lozvering  his  hands)  No.  Did  you 
think  I  was? 

JOHN.  Yes,  I  did.  And  I'm  not  sure  yet  that 
you  aren't.  What  do  you  want,  anyhow,  sneaking 
up  on  our  porch  this  way? 

MICHAEL.     I  want  to  see  your  sister. 

JOHN.  Frances?  Then  why  didn't  you  ring  the 
bell  and  send  in  your  card?  That's  the  way  callers 
do. 

MICHAEL.  Yes,  I  know,  but — you  have  guests, 
haven't  you? 

JOHN.  Oh,  yes — Mrs.  Widdimore's  here — and 
old  Ned's  on  the  job  as  usual 

MICHAEL.  I  want  to  see  your  sister  here  alone — 
to  surprise  her.  Don't  tell  anyone  I  was  here — 
that's  a  good  chap — and  I'll  come  back  later 
when (He  starts  away  to  the  right. 

JOHN.  (Shouldering  his  air-rifle  and  pointing  it 
at  MICHAELJ  Halt'/  Halt,  or  I'll  call  Father! 
(MICHAEL  stops)  I  believe  you're  a  burglar  after 
all. 

MICHAEL.    Aren't  you  afraid  of  me? 

JOHN.  I  should  say  I'm  not.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
anything.  Why,  when  I  grow  up,  I'm  going  to  be 
in  the  aviation  service,  that's  what  I'm  going  to  do. 


78  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

MICHAEL.  Bully  for  you !  Then  we'll  be  pals. 
I  used  to  be  in  that  service  myself. 

JOHN.  You  don't  mean  you're  the  fellow  that  got 
the  war  cross  ? 

MICHAEL.    Yes,  I'm  the  fellow. 

JOHN.  How  do  I  know  you're  not  telling  a 
whopper  ? 

MICHAEL.  Here — wait  a  minute,  and  111  show 
you  the  cross —  (He  fumbles  in  an  inside  pocket, 
draws  it  out  and  shows  it  to  JOHN)  Now,  how 
about  it? 

JOHN.     Gee!     I'd  like  to  have  one  of  those. 

MICHAEL.  Would  you?  Then  listen !  Get  your 
sister  out  on  the  porch  here — alone — and — 111  give 
it  to  you. 

JOHN.     Honest  injun? 

MICHAEL.    Honest  injun ! 

JOHN.    Cross  vour  heart  and  hope  to  die? 

MICHAEL.  (Crossing  his  heart)  Cross  my  heart 
and  hope  to  die. 

JOHN.     All  rigrht,  I  got  you!     Give  it  here. 

(He  holds  out  his  hand  for  the  cross. 

MICHAEL.  (Withdrawing  his  hand)  After  I've 
seen  her. 

JOHN.  Nope.  You've  got  to  come  across  first, 
or  the  deal's  off. 

MICHAEL.  (Laughing)  You'll  get  on  in  the 
world,  my  son.  Shall  I  pin  it  on  for  you  the  way 
they  do  in  France  ?  The  way  General  Joffre  gave  it 
to  me? 

JOHN.     Yes. 

MICHAEL.    Then  stand  up  straight. 

JOHN.  (Draws  himself  up,  with  his  stomach  stuck 
out)  Like  this? 

MICHAEL.     More  or  less.     Stomach  in! 
(He  pokes  JOHN  in  the  stomach.    JOHN  draws  in. 
Then  MICHAEL  pins  the  cross  on  JOHN'S  coat, 
shakes  hands  gravely  with  him;  then  he  strikes 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  79 

him  on  each  shoulder  with  his  right  hand,  and 
finally  kisses  him  on  both  cheeks) 

JOHN.  (Struggling  angrily)  What  do  you  think 
you're  trying  to  do  ? 

MICHAEL.  (Laughing)  That's  the  way  they  do 
it  in  France. 

JOHN.  You  mean  to  say  General  Joffer  kissed 
you?  (MICHAEL  nods,  amused)  Well,  what  do 
you  know  about  that ! 

(NED,  in  right,  has  already  finished  "The  Bando~ 
lero") 

MICHAEL.  (With  a  sudden  start,  listening)  Some 
one's  coming-. 

JOHN.  (Sneaking  up  to  the  center  door)  It's 
Father!  Duck!  Down  behind  those  Iflac  bushes! 
(He  points  off  left)  Quick !  I'll  wig-wag  when  the 
coast's  clear ! 

(MICHAEL  hastens  off  to  the  left,  just  as  MR. 
RAYMOND  enters  the  hall  from  the  right.  He 
comes  out  on  the  veranda  and  down  to  JOHN) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  John,  go  in  and  say  goodnight 
to  Mrs.  Widdimore.  It's  your  bedtime. 

JOHN.  Oh,  Father,  just  five  minutes  more — 
please ! 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Very  well.  Five  minutes  more. 
And  then  off  you  march.  Now  run  along. 

(He  sits  in  the  settee  to  the  left  and  lights  a  cigar. 

JOHN.  All  right.  (He  runs  off  to  the  left. 
Presently  FRANCES  comes  into  the  hall  from  the 
right  and  out  on  the  veranda) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I  don't  think,  dear,  that  when 
Ned  is  our  guest,  you  ought  to  avoid  him  quite  so 
pointedly.  The  minute  he  comes  into  the  house, 
you  go  out.  It  isn't  courteous. 

FRANCES.    I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  but — I  don't 


80  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

want  to  be  alone  with  him  tonight  —  honestly,  I  don't. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     You're  too  sure  of  Ned. 

FRANCES.    I  suppose  I  am. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  That's  the  trouble.  I  believe 
you've  been  in  love  with  him  a  long  time  —  and  don't 
know  it. 

FRANCES.    I  wonder.     I  am  awfully  fond  of  him, 

but  - 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Of  course,  adventure  and  ro 
mance  may  be  all  very  well  in  books,  but— 

FRANCES.  (Passionately)  I  hate  adventure  —  I 
hate  romance  ! 

MR.  RAYMOND.  In  any  event,  it's  hardly  fair  to 
keep  him  dangling  about  indefinitely. 

FRANCES.    I  suppose  it  isn't. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Mind,  dear,  I'm  not  urging  you,. 
one  way  or  another,  but  if  he  asks  for  his  answer 
tonight,'  I  think  you  ought  to  give  it  to  him  defin 
itely. 

FRANCES!    You're  quite  right.     He  shall  have  his 

answer. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     (Questioningly)     And  -  r 
FRANCES.     Oh,  Father—  I  don't  know  yet—  but  I 
when  he  asks  me. 


(JOHN  enters  along  the  path  from  the  left. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  That's  right,  dear.  (He  goes 
up  to  the  center  door,  then,  seeing  JOHN,  turns) 
John,  your  five  minutes  are  up. 

JOHN.    All  right,  Father—  I'm  coming. 

(MR.  RAYMOND  goes  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the 
right.  JOHN  faces  off  left,  and  stretches  out 
both  arms  in  a  series  of  signals) 

FRANCES.  (Watching  him  in  amazement)  John, 
what  are  you  doing? 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  81 

JOHN.  Stretchin'.  Good  night,  sis.  (He  passes 
her  on  way  to  the  center  door) 

FRANCES.  (Hugging  him  suddenly)  Good  night, 
little  brother. 

(She  kisses  him  and  he  goes  into  the  hall  and  out 
to  the  right.  Left  alone,  FRANCES  walks  to  the 
pillar  left,  and  stands  leaning  against  it,  looking 
out  front.  MICHAEL  comes  on  softly  from  the 
left,  walks  behind  the  pillar  and  approaches  her 
from  the  right.  He  stands  beside  her  a  moment 
before  she  real:zes  his  presence.  At  last  she 
raises  her  eyes  and  sees  him) 

FRANCES.    How  dare  you  !    Oh,  how  dare  you ! 

MICHAEL.     I've  come  back  for  you. 

FRANCES.     For  me? 

MICHAEL.  Yes.  I've  come  to  take  you  away 
with  me — tonight.  Are  you  ready? 

FRANCES.  Do  you  think  you  can  come  back 
and— 

MICHAEL.  Oh,  I  know  I  behaved  outrageously — 
but  never  mind  that  now.  It's  over  and  done  with 
and — I'm  here  again.  I'm  sorry  if  it  hurt  you, 
but— 

FRANCES.  If  it  hurt  me?  You  don't  mean  you 
took  our  little  flirtation  seriously? 

MICHAEL.     Flirtation!     What  a  damnable  word! 

FRANCES.    What  else  can  you  call  it? 

MICHAEL.  (With  disgust)  Flirtation?  Do  I 
look  like  a  man  who  would  flirt?  Do  I  ?  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  you  were  only — flirting ? 

FRANCES.  Of  course.  I  saw  that  you  were  flirt 
ing,  and  I  thought  you  needed  a  lesson,  so  I  pre 
tended  to  want  to  marry  you,  and — oh  dear,  how 
funny  you  were  !  How  awfully  funny  ! 

MICHAEL.     Funny?    I? 

FRANCES.    You  bluffed  very  well 
til  you  lost  your  nerve.      If   you'd   only   bluffed   a 
little  longer,  it  would  have  been  I  who  ran  away. 


82  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

MICHAEL.  (Seizes  her  roughly  by  the  wrist, 
draws  her  to  him  and  looks  steadily  into  her  eyes. 
Her  glance  falls)  Aha!  I  thought  so.  You  did 
care. 

FRANCES.  (Indignantly)  I  didn't!  I  didn't,  I 
tell  you,  I  didn't,  I  didn't,  I  didn't !  Oh,  how  can  I 
make  you  believe  I  didn't  ? 

MICHAEL.    You  can't.    You  cared — as  much  as  / 
did.     I  wish  we  hadn't.     I  didn't  want  to  love  you. 
I  didn't  want  you  to  love  me. 
FRANCES.    I  didn't — I  don't ! 
MICHAEL.    But  we  couldn't  help  it.    So  we  might 
as  well  make  the  best  of  it.    That's  why  I'm  here. 
FRANCES.     I  didn't  want  you  to  come. 
MICHAEL.    Do  you  suppose  I  wanted  to  come?    I 
came  because  I  couldn't  help  it.     I  swore  I'd  forget 
yOU — I  swore  it  sixty  times  a  day,  and  the  harder 
I   swore,  the  more  clearly  I   saw  you.     I  tried  to 
put  the  ocean  between  us — I  even  sailed  for  Europe  ; 
but  when  we  dropped  the  pilot  off  Sandy  Hook,  I 
came  back  with  him.     I've  been  coming  back  to  you 
ever  since — fighting  against  it  every  inch  of  the  way 
— but   you   dragged   me  back   to   you — and  at  last 
I'm  here.    I  belong  to  you.    You  belong  to  me.    And 
you're  coining  with  me. 
FRANCES.     I'm  not! 
MICHAEL.     We're  leaving  immediately. 
FRANCES.     You're  leaving  immediately,  I  hope. 
MICHAEL.     You've  got  to  go.  I've  come  to  take 
you  out  of  this  humdrum  life  you've  always  led,  to 
save  you  from  it — to  carry  you  away  with  me  into 
my  world.     It's  all  planned.     We  leave  tonight  on 
a  freight  steamer  for  the  Northwest  woods — come ! 
(He  seises   her  hand   and   draws  her   toward   the 
right)     Come,  I  say!     For,  in  spite  of  everything— 
I  love  you ! 

FRANCES.    No !    (She  breaks  away  from  him  and 
goes  up  toward  the  center  door)    I  hope  that  this  is 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  83 

the  last  of  your  ridiculous  appearances — and  disap 
pearances. 

(MICHAEL  looks  at  her  a  moment,  then  marches  off 
left  without  ^a  word.  As  FRANCES  turns  to  the 
center  door,  NED  comes  into  the  hall  from  the 
right,  and  out  on  the  veranda) 

NED.  Frances,  I've  been  trying  to  get  a  few  min 
utes  alone  with  you  ever  since  dinner,  but  some 
how — I  don't  know — fate  seems  to  have  been  against 
me. 

FRANCES.  Well,  here  I  am,  Ned.  (NED  takes 
her  arm  and  leads  her  to  the  ottoman.  She  sits 
down  ) 

NED.  It  was  awfully  good  of  you,  Frances,  to 
have  me  out  for  dinner  tonight — and  grandma. 

FRANCES.  Why,  not  at  all,  Ned.  You  know  I'm 
always  glad  to  see  you. 

NED.  Yes,  I  think  you  are —  (A  little  pause) 
I  was  thinking  tonight,  while  we  were  at  dinner — 
there  was  something  so  sort  of — I  don't  know — 
domestic — in  the  way  you  passed  the  bread  to  me, 
that  it — it  got  to  me,  and — 

FRANCES.  I  suppose  you  want  your  answer,  Ned. 
Is  that  it  ? 

NED.     Yes,  that's  it — if  you  don't  mind. 

FRANCES.  Ned,  you've  been  heavenly  to  me,  and 
I  haven't  always  been  very  nice  to  you ;  but  you 
were  never  resentful,  never  angry ! 

NED.  Why,  anyone  would  be  just  that  way  to 
you. 

FRANCES.     Oh,  no,  they  wouldn't.     I  know. 

NED.     I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  impatient. 

FRANCES.     Aren't  vou? 

NED.  Not  a  bit.  That  is,  of  course,  I'd  like  aw 
fully  well  to  know,  but — if  you  aren't  able  to  tell 
me  just  yet,  why — of  course,  I'll  wait. 


84  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

FRANCES.    How  long-? 

NED.  As  long  as  you  want  me  to.  I  wouldn't 
want  to  hurry  you. 

FRANCES.  (Almost  to  herself)  If  I  don't  know 
now,  I'll  never  know. 

NED.     I've  thought  that,  too. 

FRANCES.  Ned,  I  don't  love  you  as  I  think  I 
should,  if  I'm  going-  to  marry  you. 

NED.     You  don't  love  anyone  else,  do  you? 

FRANCES.     No! 

NED.  I  guess  that  will  do,  won't  it?  You  know — 
I  don't  expect  you  to  be  perfectly  crazy  over  me — in 
a  romantic  way,  I  mean. 

FRANCES.     Don't  you? 

NED.  No,  I  don't.  But  I  love  you  and — I  can 
take  care  of  you  and — do  things  for  vou  and — I'm 
almost  sure  I  would  make  a  very  kind  husband, 
Frances. 

FRANCES.     I  know  you  would. 

NED.  Sometimes  I  think  you  care  more  for  me 
than  you  think  you  do. 

FRANCES.    That's  just  whpt  "F^th^r  ?ai'd- 

NED.  Did  he?  By  Jove,  I  hope  he's  right.  Oh, 
Frances,  if  you  would  just  keen  on  depending-  on 
me — I'd  never  fail  you — vou  know  that. 

FRANCES.  Oh,  I  do,  Ned — nnd  it's  such  a  com 
fort  to  have  someone  you  can  denend  on — someone 
whose  ways  you  know — who  thinks  as  you  do — who 
never  surprises  you — 

(STTLES  enters  the  hall  from  the  left) 

STTLES.  (Calling  into  the  room  to  the  right  of  the 
hall)  Mr.  Raymond ! 

(NTED  looks  up  resentfully  at  this  interruption. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Appearing  in  the  hall  from  the 
right)  What  is  it,  Stiles? 

STILES.  (Handing  him  a  card  on  a  silver  tray) 
A  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir. 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  85 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Looking  at  the  card)  Rudder — 
Mr.  Michael  Rudder?  (He  comes  out  on  the  ver 
anda.  STYLES  remains  in  the  hall)  Don't  know 
any  Rudder.  Do  you,  Frances  ? 

FRANCES.  No,  Father — I  never  heard  the  name 
before. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Where  have  you  put  him? 

STILES.    He's  in  the  front  hall,  sir. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     I'll  see  him  out  here. 

(STILES  goes  out  to  the  left) 

NED.     Come,  Frances,  we'll  go  into  the  library. 
T  don't  think  anyone  is  in  there. 
(He  goes  to  the  center  door  and  holds  it  open  for  her. 

FRANCES.  In  a  minute,  Ned.  (NED  goes  into  the 
hall  and  out  to  the  right.  FRANCES  turns  to  MR. 
RAYMOND)  Father,  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you :  I've 
decided  to  marry  Ned. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Delighted)  No!  Oh,  my  dear, 
I  am  so  pleased — so  awfully  glad. 

FRANCES.    Are  you?    I  thought  you  would  be. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  The  very  minute  I  get  rid  of 
this  tiresome  man,  I'll  be  in  to  speak  to  you  both, 
my  dear  child ! 

(FRANCES  goes  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the  right. 
A  moment  later  STILES  enters  the  hall  from  the 
left,  followed  by  MICHAEL,  who  has  taken  off 
his  coat  and  is  in  full  evening  dress.  STILES 
opens  the  screen  door.  MICHAEL  comes  out  on 
the  veranda,  and  STILES  goes  out  to  the  left) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Not  recognizing  him)  Good 
evening. 

MICHAEL.     Good  evening. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr. — Mr. — 
(With  a  furtive  glance  at  the  card)  Mr.  Rudder. 

MICHAEL.    You  don't  remember  me ! 


86  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Well,  the  fact  is,  just  for  the 
moment — I  have  a  most  unhappy  memory  for  faces. 

MICHAEL.     Look  at  me. . 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Recognising  him,  with  great 
surprise)  Jones! 

MICHAEL.  Yes.  I  believe  I  was  Jones  at  that 
particular  stage  of  my  career. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Angrily)  How  dare  you  come 
here? 

MICHAEL.     I  beg  your  pardon? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  How  dare  you  come  here,  I  say, 
after  your  atrocious  behavior  to  my  daughter? 

MICHAEL.    Ah  !  you've  heard  about  it  ? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I  should  say  I  had,  and  let  me 
tell  you — 

MICHAEL.  That's  splendid !  I  was  afraid  you 
hadn't,  and  that  would  have  meant  very  tedious  ex 
planations.  As  it  is,  I  can  come  straight  to  the 
point. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you, 
sir — nothing.  I  wish  to  hold  no  communication 
with  you — nor  does  my  daughter. 

MICHAEL.  I  have  come  to  address  myself  to  you. 
You  seem  surprised  to  see  me  in  these  accursed 
clothes  ? 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Well,  your  former  appearance 
was  not  quite  so 

MICHAEL.  Correct?  No,  it  was  not !  This  is  the 
first  time  in  years  that  I  have  appeared  in  the  habili 
ments  of  so-called  society.  I  wish  I  might  think  it 
was  the  last,  but  my  mind  misgives  me. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  '(Grimly  amused)  And  was  it  to- 
do  me  honor  that  you  took  this  rash  step? 

MICHAEL.  Practically,  yes.  Your  daughter,  I 
regret  to  inform  you,  is  incurably  conventional.  To 
approach  her  in  any  other  manner  than  that  ap 
proved  by  generations  of  stiff-necked  forebears  is 
to  court  disaster.  Behold  me,  therefore,  come  be- 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  87 

fore  you  to  make  formal  application  for  your 
daughter's  hand. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  What !  You  are  proposing-  to 
me  for  her? 

MICHAEL.  I  am.  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  that 
such  a  ceremony  strikes  me  as  ridiculous.  Who 
your  daughter  marries  is  her  own  business  and  that 
of  her  future  husband.  You  ought  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Well,  upon  my  word,  I  intend 
to! 

MICHAEL.  I  was  sure  you  would.  And  so  I  am 
following  that  custom  which  the  world  has  decreed 
as  strictly  correct  in  this  emergency.  I  will  now, 
with  your  permission,  proceed  to  state  my  qualifica 
tions  for  becoming  your  son-in-law.  To  me  this 
seems  a  disgusting  process.  If  I  were  seeking  the 
position  of  butler  I  could  do  no  more. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I  tell  you  it  is  useless.  Neither 
my  daughter  nor  I  would  even  consider 

MICHAEL.  Stop !  When  .  you  have  heard  my 
qualifications,  I  defy  you  to  reject  me.  From  any 
human  and  rational  standpoint,  I  may  make  a 
wretched  husband ;  but  from  the  worldly  point  of 
view,  I  am  so  confoundedly  and  disgracefully 
eligible  that  no  business  man  in  the  world  could 
refuse  me  his  daughter. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Sitting  down  in  the  chair  to  the 
left  of  the  right  pillar)  Well,  if  you  insist — but  I 
tell  you  in  advance — 

MICHAEL.  I  am  thirty-one  years  old,  which  age, 
I  am  informed  by  authorities,  is  absolutely  the 
prime  of  life.  I  am  in  the  pink  of  perfect  physical 
condition.  (He  extracts  from  his  pocket  a  sheaf 
of  papers  and  hands  one  to  MR.  RAYMOND)  Here 
is  a  report  from  my  physician,  Dr.  Edward  Grimsby, 
of  New  York.  I  am  the  son  of  Patrick  Rudder  and 
Margaret,  his  wife,  nee  Nicoll,  both  deceased.  A 


88  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

copy  of  my  birth  certificate.  (He  hands  MR.  RAY- 
MON  another  paper)  My  grandfather,  Dennis 
Rudder,  came  here  from  Dublin  in  1847.  He  was 
the  youngest  son  of  Seumas  William  O'Dowd  Mar 
tin  Patrick,  thirty-seventh  Lord  Dromore,  and,  like 
all  other  Irishmen,  was  lineally  descended  from  the 
Gaelic  kings.  His  family  tree.  (He  hands  MR. 
RAYMOND  another  paper)  My  mother  was  a  Nicoll 
— need  I  say  more?  Her  family  tree.  (He  hands 
MR.  RAYMOND  another  paper)  I  find,  on  investi 
gation,  that  I  have  three  uncles,  ten  aunts,  one 
grand-uncle  and  fourteen  first  cousins,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  a  large  collection  of  second  cousins  and  first 
cousins  once  removed.  Mo?t  of  them,  I  find,  be 
long  to  what  is  technically  known  as  "New  York 
Society,"  or,  in  the  more  remote  suburban  districts, 
as  "The  Smart  Set."  And,  so  far  as  I  have  had 
opportunity  to  judge — for  my  acquaintance  with 
them  has  been  of  the  briefest  and  most  casual 
nature — they  do  not,  as  a  whole,  run  much  below 
the  necessarily  low  average  of  relatives. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     Great  heavens. 

MICHAEL.  My  father  left  a  large  fortune,  which 
he  acquired,  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  inform  you, 
almost  by  accident,  and  not  with  malice  afore 
thought.  It  is  under  the  management  of  my  trus 
tees,  The  Guaranty  Title  and  Trust  Company  of 
New  York,  and,  according  to  their  last  report — 
(He  picks  up  another  paper  and  reads  from  It) 
— amounts  to  two  million,  seven  hundred  and  forty- 
four  thousand,  six  hundred  and  ninety-seven  dol 
lars  and  thirty-six  cents.  Here  is  the  list.  As  you 
will  note,  it  is  invested  in  conservative  securities, 
which  return  me,  I  am  informed,  an  annual  income 
of  one  hundred  and  forty-six  thousand  seven  hun 
dred  and  forty-three  dollars.  (He  hands  MR.  RAY 
MOND  the  list,  which  he  seizes  and  reads  eagerly, 
although  he  has  scarcely  glanced  at  the  others) 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  8o/ 

MR.  RAYMOND.     This  is  perfectly  colossal! 

MICHAEL.  I  have  never  hitherto  made  use  of 
those  stupid  organizations  known  as  clubs,  but  I 
am  a  member  of  most  of  them — the  Union  League, 
the  Racquets,  the  Players,  the  Lotus ;  and  I  am  told 
that  if  I  live  the  allotted  course  of  man's  existence, 
I  will  be  a  member  of  the  University  Club  before  I 
die. 

MR.  RAYMOND.    What  next? 

MICHAEL.  I  am  an  Episcopalian  by  birth,  and 
testimonials  to  my  moral  character  are  herein  en 
closed  from  the  Bishop  of  the  diocese  of  New  York, 
the  Bishop  Coadjutor  and  the  Very  Reverend  Dean 
Dalton,  rector  of  my  hereditary  church,  that  of  St. 
Michael.  But  having  learned  from  Frances  that 
your  family  are  Baptists,  I  took  the  precaution  to 
secure  a  letter  also  from  Dr.  Frederick  Glossop  Jor 
dan,  minister  of  the  First  Baptist  Church  of  New 
York.  (He  hands  MR.  RAYMOND  several  envelopes) 

MR.  RAYMOND.    Is  there  anything  more? 

MICHAEL.  Let  me  see?  Have  I  forgotten  any 
thing?  Oh,  only  a  few  small  matters.  I  have  a 
box  at  the  Metropolitan,  three  houses  in  New  York, 
with  country  places  at  Smithtown,  Newport,  Aikin, 
and  a  shooting  box  in  the  Adirondacks.  I  believe 
there  is  a  yacht,  too — there  used  to  be.  Should  your 
interests  be  more  largely  social,  I  have  prepared  a 
list  of  ushers.  (He  hands  MR.  RAYMOND  another 
paper)  Most  of  them  will,  I  believe,  be  known  to 
you.  They  are,  I  am  told,  rather  notable  in  the 
world  of  society.  Personally,  most  of  them  bore 
me  to  tears,  but  I  am  told  they  will  make  our  wed 
ding  a  very  remarkable  function.  It  also  occurred 
to  me  that,  as  a  business  man,  you  might  consider  it 
a  disgrace  to  have  a  son-in-law  who  was  not  em 
ployed.  I  am  prepared  to  humor  your  prejudices. 
Here  are  letters  from  several  of  my  father's  friends, 
offering  me  jobs.  (As  he  reads  the  name  of  each 


90  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

firm,  he  hands  MR.  RAYMOND  an  envelope)  U.  S. 
Steel  Corporation,  J.  P.  Morgan  and  Company, 
National  City  Bank,  New  York  Central,  Bethlehem 
Steel — you  may  select  the  job  yourself.  One  is  as 
stupid  and  disagreeable  as  the  other. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  But,  as  I  recall  it,  you  did  not 
wish  to  marry? 

MICHAEL.    I  did  not! 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Nothing  could  induce  you  to  give 
up  your  way  of  life. 

MICHAEL.    She  won't  have  me  otherwise. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  And  you'll  give  up  all  that  for 
the  privilege  of  becoming  my  daughter's — young 
man? 

MICHAEL.  Call  me  her  beau  and  be  done  with  it ! 
I  will ! 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Well,  this  is  very  flattering.  But 
in  spite  of  your  concessions,  and  I  admit  they  must 
be  somewhat  galling  to  a  man  of  your  constitu 
tion—  (He  rises)  I  have  the  honor  to  refuse 
your  offer. 

MICHAEL.  To  refuse!  How  can  you?  What 
possible  reason — Look  at  these  papers !  You  can't 
have  read  them. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  My  dear  sir,  you  are,  as  you 
say,  ostentatiously  eligible.  There  is  only  one  rea 
son  why  I  am  constrained  to  refuse  your  very  inter 
esting  offer,  and  that  reason  is  that  my  daughter — 
(He  chuckles  to  himself)  But  I  must  not  be  selfish. 
Pardon  me.  (He  goes  to  the  center  door  and  calls) 
Frances ! 

FRANCES    (In  right)    Yes,  Father? 

MICHAEL.    I  am  addressing  myself  to  you,  sir. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  (Calling)  Will  you  come  out 
here  a  moment,  my  dear? 

MICHAEL.  It  is  your  consent  to  our  marriage  that 
I  am  seeking.  Once  that  is  obtained,  there  will  be 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  91 

no  difficulty  whatever  in  obtaining  your  daughter's. 
(He  turns  to  the  left  of  the  center  door) 

MR.  RAYMOND.  Your  assurance  is  90  superb  that 
I  really  hate  to  see  it  dashed. 

FRANCES.  (Comes  into  the  hall  from  the  right, 
and  out  upon  the  veranda.  She  starts  as  she  sees 
MICHAEL)  You!  (MICHAEL  bows  without  speak 
ing)  But — but — you  don't  look  a  bit  like  yourself. 

MICHAEL.    Thank  you. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  My  dear,  this  gentleman — Mr. 
Rudder — has  come  to  me  to  propose  in  formal  style 
for  your  hand.  He  has  left  with  me  this  large  sheaf 
of  testimonials  which  I  am  sure  it  will  entertain  you 
to  peruse  in  your  leisure  moments.  He  has  even 
signified  his  willingness  to  give  up  entirely  his  vaga 
bond  way  of  life  and  to  become  a  conventional 
member  of  society.  And  all  for  your  sake,  my  dear. 
It's  gratifying.  (He  lays  the  testimonials  down  on 
the  taborette) 

FRANCES.     You're  willing  to  give  it  up  after  all? 

MICHAEL.  Look  at  me!  (FRANCES  laughs  at  his 
crestfallen  appearance)  There  is  your  answer ! 

FRANCES.  (Laughing  louder  and  louder)  Oh, 
please  do  forgive  me,  but — oh,  you  are  so  funny ! 
And  all  these  beautiful  testimonials!  Why,  they 
must  have  taken  weeks  of  patient  effort. 

MICHAEL.  When  I  came  here  tonight,  I  knew  in 
my  heart  you  w.ould  never  accept  me  as  I  was.  I 
really  made  my  surrender  two  weeks  ago,  when  I 
began  to  collect  those  things. 

MR.  RAYMOND.  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  sir,  that 
my  daughter  is  about  to  announce  her  engagement 
to  Mr.  Edward  Andrews. 

MICHAEL.    (In  great  surprise)    To  Andrews ! 

FRANCES.  (Smiling)  You  heard  what  my  father 
said. 


92  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

(NED  conies  into   the  hall  from  the  right  and  out 
upon  the  veranda) 

NED.  Did  anyone  call  me  ?  Oh,  I  beg  pardon.  I 
thought —  (He  recognizes  MICHAEL)  Oh — it's 
you 

MICHAEL.     Yes,  Andrews,  it  is  I. 

NED.    I  didn't  think  you  would  come  back. 

MICHAEL.  Nor  did  I  think  when  I  did  that  it 
would  be  simply  to  congratulate  you. 

NED.    I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about. 

MICHAEL.     Your  engagement  to  Frances. 

NED.    But  I  am  not  engaged  to  Miss  Raymond. 

MR.  RAYMOND.     What ! 

NED.     No.     She  has  just  refused  me. 

MICHAEL.     Frances ! 

MR.  RAYMOND.    But — but — you  said — 

FRANCES.  I  know  I  did.  Father.  And  I  meant 
to.  But  when  the  time  came  I — I  found  I  couldn't. 
(Turning  to  NED)  Oh,  Ned,  you  do  understand, 
don't  you  ?  It  wouldn't  have  been  fair  to  you — feel 
ing  as  I  did.  I'm  sorry. 

NED.  Oh,  it's  all  right.  Don't  feel  badly  about 
it.  I  don't  see  why  people  think  they've  always  got 
to  be  fair  to  me. 

(He  goes  into  the  hall  and  out  to  the  right.  MICH 
AEL  goes  impulsively  to  FRANCES,  and  is  about 
to  take  her  in  his  arms,  when  he  notices  MR. 
RAYMOND'S  stern  glance  is  upon  them.  He 
stops,  and  takes  from  his  pocket  a  small  jewel 
er's  bo  A',  out  of  which  he  takes  an  engagement 
ring  and  with  a  defiant  look  at  MR.  RAYMOND, 
places  it  on  her  finger.  A  smile  slowly  spreads 
itself  over  MR.  RAYMOND'S  face  as  he  watches 
them.  It  grows  at  last  to  a  hearty  laugh,  in 
•which  MICHAEL  and  FRANCES  join  him.  Then, 
still  laughing,  he  goes  without  a  word  into  the 


THE  GIPSY  TRAIL  93 

hall  and  out  to  the  right.  MICHAEL  leads 
FRANCES  down  to  the  ottoman,  seats  her  and 
sits  beside  her) 

MICHAEL.  I  suppose  there'll  be  a  big  wedding? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  .   .   . 

MICHAEL.  And  your  friends  will  throw  rice  at 
us? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  .   .   . 

MICHAEL.  And  then  there'll  be  a  honeymoon — 
in  hotels? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  .  .  . 

MICHAEL.  And  then  we'll  come  back  and  live  in 
a  house? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  .   .   . 

MICHAEL.  And  have  trouble  with  servants  ? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  .   .   . 

MICHAEL.  And  then  perhaps  there'll  be  children  ? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  .   .   . 

MICHAEL.  And  we'll  watch  youth  rise  in  them  as 

we  grow  old  together? 

FRANCES.  Yes.  .   .   . 

MICHAEL.  It  ought  to  be  wonderful ! 

The  Curtain  Falls 


94  THE  GIPSY  TRAIL 

.-,     *;\:    v.     \n*\    W    \\m\ 
NOTES  ON  PRODUCTION 

It  is  not  essential  that  the  first  act  be  set  exactly 
as  described  in  the  stage  directions.  It  will  be 
sufficient  if  the  entrances,  windows  and  furniture 
be  placed  as  shown  in  the  scene-plot.  The  stock 
scenery  of  any  theatre  can  be  lashed  together  for 
the  house  wall,  and  the  ends  of  the  porch  can  be 
masked  with  shrubbery.  It  is  not  essential  that  the 
porch  be  elevated  by  a  platform,  although  if  this  is 
available  it  will  add  considerably  to  the  effect. 

"The  Gipsy  Trail,"  words  by  Rudyard  Kipling, 
music  by  Tod  B.  Galloway,  is  published  by  Theodore 
Fresser  Co.,  1712  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

'The  Bandolero,"  words  and  music  by  Leslie 
Stuart,  is  published  by  G.  Schirmer,  New  York 
City. 

Both  can  be  obtained  from  any  good  music  store. 

A  spotlight  should  be  placed  in  the  entrance-hall 
right,  in  Act  II,  and  trained  upon  the  armchair 
down  right,  so  that,  in  the  dark  scene,  it  will  fall 
upon  FRANCES  and  MICHAEL.  But  where  a  spot 
light  cannot  be  obtained,  a  small  table  may  be  placed 
beside  the  armchair  down  right,  with  a  small  table- 
lamp  on  it,  which  can  be  turned  on  by  MICHAEL 
immediately  after  his  entrance  and  will  throw  its 
light  upon  FRANCES'  face  during  this  scene. 

At  the  end  of  Act  II  it  will  be  found  best  to 
drop  the  curtain  the  moment  Ned's  idea  has  reg 
istered  with  the  audience  and  they  begin  to  laugh. 
"On  Spider  Lake"  has  generally  been  found  the 
most  effective  cue  for  the  curtain. 

If  a  tandem  bicycle  is  not  obtainable  for  use  in 
Act  III,  a  seat  can  be  attached  to  the  front  of  an 
ordinary  bicycle. 


